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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22971043">Sorrow and Salvation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wavecloud19/pseuds/Wavecloud19'>Wavecloud19</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fleabag (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath, Angst, Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fleabagpov, Fluff and Smut, I want to know, Love, Post-Canon, Priestpov, Romance, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:34:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>36,262</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22971043</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wavecloud19/pseuds/Wavecloud19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He hoped it would pass, he prayed, he begged, he got on his knees. But he just couldn’t get her out of his mind, she was always there, creeping in as he gave a sermon, sidling in, half smile on her lips, haunting him as he tried to sleep. All he wanted was peace. All he wanted was for it to pass. </p><p>IT DID NOT PASS (for me or him)</p><p>Aftermath of S2 E6, told from Priests POV (plus some infrequent Fleabag POV).<br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>83</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>384</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The First Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Am thinking about expanding this into more of Season 2 from Priest's POV, or maybe more going forward, as i definitely want to write a reunion into this at some point.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He lay in the dark, against the hard mattress, on his single, creaky bed. How different it was to this time 24 hours ago. It felt like a lifetime away. The sweet smell of coconut, her hair between his fingers, her body, smooth and soft and yearning for his. Her eyes so completely focussed on his, there was no disengaging, she was all in, all his. He sighed, as he lay in the darkness, he could taste her body on his lips, hear her rapid breathing, feel her body on his as she began kissing her way down his chest, towards his –<br/>
NO<br/>
Startled, he sat up, had he said that out loud or merely imagined it? Heart beating, he sat in the silence, listening out for any sign that Pam had heard his shout – nothing. </p><p>Laying back down, he began to focus on prayer:<br/>
“O Lord, let my soul rise up to meet you<br/>
as the day rises to meet the sun.<br/>
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit,<br/>
as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen.<br/>
Come, let us bow down and bend the knee: let us kneel before the Lord our Maker.”</p><p>Let us kneel… kneel…</p><p>
  <i>There she was, in the confessional, emotional and looking up at him, cheeks slightly flushed, eyes searching for – what? He didn’t know. He had knelt down and brushed his finger over her lips, the tenderness of that first kiss, it had been exquisite. More to it than just the feeling of a kiss, more to it than it being the first time he had kissed someone in over 10 years, more to it than just desire. It had been a feeling of – of… What!?</i>
</p><p>In the darkness, in his room, he sighed and rubbed his temples, swinging his legs over the side of his bed, his bare feet hit the cool wooden floors. The feeling grounded him. Glancing out the window, the trees of the rectory garden swayed slightly in the summer breeze. </p><p>
  <i>It had been a feeling of soaring, transcending the tangible. And at the same time a feeling of coming home, returning to where he was destined to be, returning to peace. Peace, as he caressed her chin and softly kissed her lips. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>And then the peace was gone, and they had been desperately clinging to one another, trying to get as close as possible, his heart was beating out of his chest, his stomach was alive in a flurry, he was grabbing at her waist, at her hair, her neck, desperate to burrow into her, he wasn’t thinking, he couldn’t think. All he wanted was this woman, he was biting her bottom lip, she was dragging her hands through his hair, pressing her body against his, greedily grabbing at his cassock, trying to get through the barriers separating them. His senses were gone, he could smell her, a faint scent of vanilla, he could taste the whisky she had been drinking, all he could hear was his own heartbeat, manic in his chest and her gentle murmurs, her asking about the trousers under his robes, grabbing at his belt, and then it was over.</i>
</p><p>The painting, the sign, from Him. It was not the time, not the place, the wrong circumstances. He was the wrong man. </p><p>He looked at the clock, illuminated on the wall by the moon, shining in through the curtains that he never drew - 3am. Only five hours since the bus stop, since he had walked down the road, garment bag swinging next to him, not looking back, certain that he was making the right choice. Granted, it had been a choice that he had only crystallised in his mind merely hours before. But, walking down the road, away from the bus stop, he <i>had</i> been certain that he had chosen the right path, that He was all he needed.</p><p>He had walked all the way back to the rectory, a good 45 minutes, glancing around for the fox that he knew was following him. Remarkably, he had actually made it home without bumping into any and, opening the door, he had flung the garment bag into the goodwill pile that Pam had been collecting for the next fete. Glad to be rid of the outfit they’d picked out together, he’d gone to the kitchen, grabbed the cans of G&amp;T waiting on the drink’s cabinet, rushed outside and thrown them straight into the dumpster. Finally, he’d headed up to his room, grabbed the orange lined notebook on the desk and ripped out the pages containing the draft of his latest restaurant review, the restaurant where he had met her. He screwed them up and threw the into the bin. </p><p>He would just have to find another restaurant this week to dine at, he thought to himself. The decision had been made; it was God. No use going back. Get rid of anything that reminded him of her, get rid of that small blip in his otherwise peaceful existence and life could start getting back to normal. He was certain. </p><p>But now, merely hours later, had that certainty waned? He walked over to the window, leaning on the sill and staring out into the rectory gardens. </p><p>The bushes twitched slightly, what was that? A fox? No, must have been his imagination. But he was sure he could see something; there was something out there. It probably was a fox, they were after him, he knew that. He turned and paced towards the desk containing his notebook, a couple of library books (he was currently reading a slightly dull and predictable thriller) and some bibles. </p><p>He absentmindedly flicked through the top bible, wondering what she’d done with the one he had marked up and given to her. Picturing her room, he couldn’t remember seeing it the night before, obviously it hadn’t been amongst her bedtime reading. And just like that she was back, filling his senses.</p><p>
  <i>He remembered seeing the underwear she had on under that coat, as he had pulled the belt loose, like he was unwrapping a Christmas present. He remembered grabbing her hair and easing his tongue in between her lips, feeling her hips push against his, he had backed her against the wall, grinding his hips against hers, he’d bent his head, kissing down her jawline, onto her neck, before moving back to her lips. Her lips, cherry red, crushed against his. He could feel his body responding. It wasn't used to this, hadn’t felt this in years. His hands all over her, gliding down the smooth curve of her waist, to her hips, back up to her neck, tenderly stroking her with the back of his fingers, the tenderness of his fingers against her neck had been a complete contrast to the frenzy of their mouths, tongues. Hungrily reaching for each other, craving the closeness. His hands moved down her body, grazing the delicate skin in the small of her back, before reaching down and sliding into her lacy knickers, how wet she already was as he slid a finger into her, revelling in the desire, the hum of her soft sigh against his neck as his thumb found her clit and began circling whilst a second finger slid into her, pumping. Fuck, his cock had been so hard, his mind had been blurred, he could taste coconut as he bit the sensitive nook on her neck and pumped his fingers harder as her moans became louder. Her hips were pushing urgently into his hand, begging him to go harder, faster. He’d pulled his head back and put his forehead on hers, he’d licked his bottom lip and looked into her eyes, he loved her. He’d known he loved her before he had arrived here tonight of course. Her mouth was open, an ‘oh’ of pleasure on her lips, as she studied him, like she could see straight into his soul. She was so intense, with a slight smile, he wondered if she <b>could</b> see into his soul, see the love, mixed with the guilt, the want, the pain, the confusion over what this feeling really was. </i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>He’d begun to focus his fingers entirely on her clit, stroking, circling and flicking.</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘Harder, I’m gonna..’ she whispered into him, ‘please God, I’ve got to….’.<br/>
‘Cum,’ he’d breathed back at her, upping his pace and pressure, as she groaned, her clit pulsing, before she finally released, head back, eyes closed. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Sweating, his heart pounding against his chest and cock straining against his jeans, he had brought his fingers up and put them in his mouth, tasting her wetness. ‘I want to do that again right away. I want to taste you.’ </i>
</p><p>
  <i>She had gently pushed him back, walking towards the stairs, he had taken an instinctive step toward her, he couldn’t bear the distance. Over her shoulders, she’d looked back at him and lowered her coat over her shoulders and down her back, revealing the delicious black lace and curve of her waist, before walking up the stairs. ‘Are you coming?’ he had heard her quietly ask, sultry and unabashedly sure as she walked away from him.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Practically flying, he had leapt up the stairs after her, reaching the top before faltering slightly, taking a deep breath and putting his hands by his side, he’d given himself a little pep talk, ‘play it cool. It's been a long time, you can have forever with her’, but then he’d pushed open the bedroom door and there she was, perching on the chest of drawers, one leg slightly bent, waiting for him. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Fuck playing it cool, he had hastily crossed the room, grabbing her hips and pulling them against his, the hardness of his cock, he knew she could feel it too. She had started to unbutton his shirt, fumbling slightly at the collar, ‘I don’t have much experience with these Father,’ she had playfully joked before pulling his shirt down over his broad shoulders and flinging it to the floor. Undoing his belt and dragging his trousers and boxers down, his cock was finally freed, and he’d grabbed her hips again, pulling her against him, crushing his mouth against hers, fucking her mouth with his tongue. She’d reached down for him, the soft skin, hard as a rock, and began moving her hand up and down the shaft, slowly, purposefully, as she’d stared into his eyes. Lord, it felt so good. She’d begun kissing his neck, making her way down his chest, before, God help him, placing her wet lips around his cock. She’d slid her mouth down his length, tongue gliding along the bottom, before taking it fully between her lips.</i>
</p><p>In his bedroom, he sat on his bed, head in his hands, he could feel the effect this memory was having on him, his cock was hardening. He rubbed his eyes, willing the feeling to stop, to let him get back to his vow of celibacy. </p><p>
  <i>She was looking up at him, gliding her lips up and down, hand grabbing the base and tightening, he couldn’t stand it, it felt too good, he would lose it too fast. But he needed to be closer to her. He’d lightly curled his finger around her chin, urging her to stand up ‘I’m out of practice,’ he’d softly murmured, with a slight smile. ‘Need to pace myself, plus I’m aiming for you to get to ten.’</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>A wry smile from her had encouraged him and he’d led her over to the bed, gently eased her back on to it and began to trail his fingers up her inner thigh. She was still wearing her bra and knickers, he hooked is finger over the lace and pulled her underwear down her legs, throwing them onto the floor, before restarting his journey up her thighs. Tongue trailing up, he’d kissed and bit his way towards her wet folds. His tongue finally reaching her clit, he’d wrapped his arms around her thighs and pulled her closer to him, burying himself into her. She was so wet, she was moaning. How he loved to hear her moan, as she grabbed onto the sheets and softly whispered his name. He’d sucked and licked, slowly twirling his tongue and circling in firm, persistent strokes whilst she grabbed at his hair, fingers caressing him.  </i>
</p><p>Christ, he couldn’t stand the thought any longer. It was 4am, his alarm would be going off in an hour or so. He got up from his bed, threw on running gear and headed down the stairs. On the pavement, he began a jog, the gentle thud of his feet against the pavement was soothing, it was beginning to get lighter, but there was no one else on the streets. No one else desperate to get out of their head, forget about their broken vow and get back to their commitment to Him. All he could hear was the rhythm of his feet and his heartbeat as he exerted more effort.</p><p>
  <i>He could feel her hands, running over his shoulders and into his hair, she was breathing faster and faster, moaning, crying out for a God she didn’t believe in, begging him to go faster, harder. He buried into her, tongue circling against her clit, tasting her. He’d glanced up at her, she pushed her hips against him, and he’d known she was on the verge. She had moved her hands, grabbing onto the sheets and crying out in pleasure as she’d cum. He’d stayed there, slowing his tongue, keeping the pressure against her, prolonging her orgasm, until she laid back and reached down for him. Making his way up her body, he’d brought his face to hers, his strong arms supporting him over her. His cock, hard and throbbing, could feel the wetness between her legs. He grabbed the straps of her bra, expertly undoing the clasp and threw it aside. She had leant up towards him, but he steadied her. He’d wanted to take this in, the flush of her cheeks, the sheen of sweat against her hair, her breasts heaving, her nipples hard. He had appraised her hungrily before leaning down and taking a nipple between his teeth, his tongue brushed against it and he pushed his groin into hers, grinding against her.</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘I want you inside me,’ she had whispered, grabbing a handful of his hair and drawing him down to kiss her. Her lips were swollen, her tongue pushed between his lips and his cock twitched. He didn’t think he could stand it any longer, he’d reached down wrapping his hand around the base his cock and rubbed the head against her clit. ‘I want you.’ she’d murmured against his neck and finally, he’d slowly pushed it in, relishing the moment. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>As he filled her, he’d heard exclamations ‘God, Jesus, fuck, fuck’ coming out of his mouth. He’d found her eyes with his, half expecting some sly quip about his blasphemy. None came, she merely looked back at him, into his eyes, again like she was seeing into his soul. God, he loved her, he adored the woman staring up at him.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He’d begun to thrust slowly, grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head, watching her tits as they bounced in time with his thrusts. He’d been oh so aware of how long he had been celibate and how easy it would be for him to lose it too soon, so he kept it slow, moving in and out of her, ‘Sweet Lord, help me,’ he’d murmured, and she had reached a hand up to his face, stroking gently, eyes searching, letting him know he was ok. Fuck, he was so in love with her. He buried his face into her neck increasing his tempo and grinding against her clit. His senses were filled with her again. How did she do this to him. He could smell the coconut, his lips were against her neck, he could feel her nipples against his chest, her cunt wet and warm as he moved inside her.</i>
</p><p>It was definitely getting lighter out, and he could feel his cock hard against his shorts as he ran, he had to get back to the rectory, he couldn’t have any of his parishioners find him out in this state. Running around like a teenager with a hard on. He quickened his pace, headed in through the front door and sprinted up to his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him and sliding down to sit on the floor. It wasn’t just a physical effect she was having on him, though he had to admit that did certainly cause a few issues in the celibacy department. And it wasn’t just the feeling of being in love, he’d known that feeling before, he was sure. It wasn’t like he had been particularly prudish before the Priesthood had found him, he’d had many partners, he was well versed in pleasuring a woman and had not been at all shy about getting what he wanted either. But with her, it felt different. It wasn’t just an orgasm, it wasn’t just sex, it wasn’t just love. It was... he didn’t know what it was. </p><p>It was more…, when he looked at her, he wanted to be buried in her, he wanted to know what she was thinking, what she was doing and why, he wanted to know every little bit of history, he wanted to know where her future was headed, he wanted to be as close to her as possible; physically, emotionally, spiritually. When he looked at her, he felt like he was home, it was the feeling he wanted to have with Him, the feeling he wanted after a prayer session, a feeling of closeness to a power greater than himself. It felt like she was his divine light, the light he had been working to in his vocation.</p><p>
  <i>He was pumping faster now, it felt too good, he couldn’t keep the slow rhythm, he was pounding against her, frantically moving in her. He could feel himself on the edge, he couldn’t yet. He'd slowed, panting, his face inches from hers. Then he’d grabbed her waist and flipped onto his back. She’d moved over him, straddling him, and slid down onto him again. He’d grabbed onto her waist, watching as her tits bounced up and down, for a moment he’d drifted, thinking of the Quaker meeting, her ‘peace ruining tits’, but then he was back, with her, and she was riding him, hands on his chest. She leaned forward, biting his lower lip and he reached up to her nipples, twisting them between his thumb and forefinger, feeling her pert breasts, bringing them to his lips and flicking them with his tongue. He’d moved his hand down to her clit and begun circling with his thumb as she moved up and down on him. She was already sensitive, and he was getting more familiar with her pace now. He’d stroked her clit, adding pressure, sensing she was about to orgasm again. She started moaning louder, grinding her body against his thumb, pushing up against him, before crying out. He loved her face, the face she made as she reached her orgasm, he watched as she rode the wave, eyes closed, lips open, crying with pleasure. Her eyes opened and she leant down to his face, lips brushing over his before moving to his neck. She began to bite and suck on his neck, still moving up and down rhythmically on his cock.</i>
</p><p>Turning to look in the mirror now, he saw the mark she had left on his neck, knowing she’d done it on purpose. Luckily his collar had covered it at the wedding. He laughed to himself, thinking of how pleased she had been, before abruptly stopping himself, standing up.</p><p>
  <i>She had begun to focus on him then, her rhythm getting faster, grinding her hips, rocking her pelvis, he was in heaven. He closed his eyes, before hastily reopening them, he wanted to see her, as much of her as he could, he wanted this image engrained in his mind, he wanted it to go on forever, never ending, just him and her together. She’d leaned closer to him, ‘I love the feeling of your cock,’ she’d sighed against his lips. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘God help me,’ it escaped his lips without his consent, he grabbed her hips, trying to slow her down.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘I  want you to cum inside me, I need to feel you cum,’ she had whispered, lips vibrating against his, hips still moving rapidly, ignoring his attempts to slow down.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘Fuck, please…’ he swore, ‘Stop.’ </i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘You want me to stop, Father?’ she asked, grinning slightly, abruptly halting her movement.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘Stop, don’t,’ he cried, he didn’t have the restraint, he didn’t know what he wanted. He moved his hips beneath her.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘You’re so hard, I have to feel you cum,’ she’d whispered, resuming the rhythm, thank the Lord. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Finally, he’d let go, he‘d groaned in ecstasy, all thoughts had left his mind, there was nothing he could have done, except be there in the moment with her, a moment of pure bliss as he came inside her. They stayed for a moment together, him still inside her, her leaning over him and drawing him in for a gentle, tender kiss. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘I think I’ve finally found heaven,’ he had laughingly said against her lips, pulling her closer to him as their breathing subsided. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>She’d fallen into his arms, head against his chest and he’d wrapped his arms around her, clinging to her, pulling her as close as he could. He couldn’t tell how long they had lain like that, hearts thumping. He’d buried his nose into her hair, the smell reminded him of one of the scented candles Pam sometimes burned. He was at peace, her gentle breathing against his chest was soothing, her breathing was calmer, deep. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>He’d glanced down at the top of her head, ‘I love you,’ he’d whispered. ‘Ask me to stay.’</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He waited for moment, in disbelief that he had said it out loud, waiting for her reaction. None came. After what felt like an eternity, he’d turned slightly, trying to get a grasp of what her face was doing, her reaction. Heart sinking, he’d realised she was asleep. Confession failed.</i>
</p><p>He looked over at the clock, it was now 5, his alarm would be off in half an hour. He grabbed a towel and headed into the bathroom. In the shower, he let the hot water fall over him.</p><p>
  <i>They had had shower sex. He had woken up to her gently caressing his neck, her hand making her way down his back. He’d turned, asking her what she was thinking.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘I just…’ she’d said, before stopping.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>'Go on,’ he’d encouraged her, was she going to return his feelings from last night? Was she going to ask him to stay with her? His heart was fluttering. He would say yes, he knew he would say yes. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘I just… can’t believe you did that.’ She had whispered, grinning.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He’d laughed, taken aback slightly. He’d agreed with her.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>But he could believe it, he loved her, he only needed her to ask him to stay and he would. But she hadn’t. She hadn’t asked him. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘What are we going to do at the wedding?’ she had asked, eyebrows slightly raised.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Fuck, the wedding, he had completely forgotten. He’d smiled, chuckling at the mischievous expression on her face, ‘We’ll get through it,’ he’d replied, before grabbing her hand and dragging her into the shower. He’d wanted to experience her orgasm again, see her face, hear her moans, caused by him. He’d wanted to cum inside her again, feel the intense pleasure as he moved inside her. He’d wanted her to tell him she loved the feeling of his cock, the feeling of his tongue. He’d wanted her to tell him she loved being there with him, treasured the moments as he did. But most of all he’d just wanted her to tell him she loved him.</i>
</p><p>Back in his own shower, remembering her face as he’d thrust inside her, holding her against the wall as water cascaded over them, his stomach felt tight, his cock was hard, the water pummelling down on him felt good. He hadn’t experienced this in a very long time, he wasn’t allowed to do this, and he hadn’t felt the need to since he’d been ordained. But it wasn’t going to go away, he felt like a spring, tightly coiled, desperate to be released. He reached down. Her face came into his mind as he began moving his hand up and down, her face as he’d fingered her in the living room, her face as she’d cum with his tongue on her clit, her face as she slid up and down on him, crying out for him, pulsing as she’d cum over and over. </p><p>His orgasm this time was quick. Relieved, he washed himself over, and hopped out the shower, wrapping the towel around his waist. He headed out into the hallway and came face to face with Pam, leaving her room. She jumped, startled at his lack of clothes, and he felt her appraise his body, he hoped she couldn’t tell what he had just been doing.</p><p>‘Morning Pam,’ he said heartily, attempting to inject cheer into his voice.</p><p>‘Morning Father,’ Pam stuttered. ‘You’re early, I thought you usually showered a bit later than this.’ She glanced from his chest, to his neck.</p><p>‘Oh, yes, I do. But I went for an early morning run so slight change of schedule,’ he smiled at Pam, willing her to accept this awkward encounter and forget about it.</p><p>‘Right, well Father, I’m just off to make a cup of coffee, would you care for one?’</p><p>‘Sure Pam, that would be great. Be down in 5.’ With a sigh of relief he backed into his bedroom, firmly shut the door and collapsed onto the bed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The first month</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘The father, the son and the holy spirit’ he made the sign of the cross as he heard his parishioners murmur their response. </p>
<p>‘Go in peace,’ he ended the service, glancing around at the congregation. </p>
<p>As the parishioners began to gather their things and make their way towards the exit, he breathed a sigh of relief. Another mass over, 30 since the one when she had first appeared at the church, reciprocating his offer to come and see him. Twelve since The Night. The Night he still couldn’t forget, despite his own assurances that it would pass. </p>
<p>He headed over to the doorway, preparing to say goodbye to his parishioners, hoping for an extra chat here and there with those he knew the best. Despite the sinking feeling that generally accompanied his mass service these days, he did truly enjoy this part. The chance to feel connected with them, the idle chatter helping him forget for a short moment, he felt less alone. </p>
<p>Finally, after congratulating Sally on the birth of her grandchild and wishing one of the quieter parishioners, one whose name he hadn’t quite managed to get, a peaceful week, he headed to the vestry. </p>
<p>Sitting at the old wooden table in the middle of the room, he idly picked up his phone, no messages, not unusual. The first few nights after The Night, he had had it in his head that she might get drunk and text him. It seemed however, that she had more restraint than he gave her credit for. He sighed and pulled the collar of his robes over his head, planning to change into his regular black shirt and clerical collar. He used to love the way he felt in his liturgical vestment, the ornate fabrics, the elegant colours, the feeling of tranquillity; spiritually, just that much closer to Him. </p>
<p>But during those twelve masses since he’d told her his choice, he hadn’t been quite able to grasp onto that feeling. Truth be told, he felt like he was play acting, dressing up for a scene and then reciting words from a script, a script he wasn’t sure he believed and was fairly certain he didn’t enjoy.  </p>
<p>He turned to the cupboard, grabbing his black shirt and was about to fling it on when he heard someone behind him.</p>
<p>‘Oh! Father!’ Pam exclaimed, putting her hand to her mouth. She didn’t turn away. He quickly pulled the shirt on and turned beginning to fasten the buttons. </p>
<p>‘Hi there, Pam. You all set?’ He tried to sound cheery, like he was still revelling in the joy of the mass service. He wasn’t certain, but it seemed like Pam had made a habit of finding him in various states of undress recently, both here and at the rectory. Ever since that early morning crossing as he’d headed out of the shower, he’d been finding her accidentally nipping into the back office just as she knew he would be dressing for a service or lingering in the hallway just as he was headed out of the shower.  She knew his schedules, she practically set them for him. He idly considered this as he grabbed his collar to finish dressing. </p>
<p>‘Father, I just wanted to check in on you, that was quite a melancholy homily you gave.’</p>
<p>Was it? He hasn’t noticed. </p>
<p>‘Oh Pam, of course I am. You know, we have to embrace the dark along with the light,’ he answered, hoping he was believable, and Pam couldn’t see right through him. If she could, she’d see there was no light in him. The sun hadn’t risen for days, and there was no end in sight. </p>
<p>‘Well ok Father, if you’re sure,’ Pam replied, frowning slightly. ‘I’ll head out to tidy a few things, will you be in for dinner tonight?’</p>
<p>‘Not tonight Pam, thanks. Got a few house calls to make.’ He smiled at her, willing her to leave. Like his mass services, he felt like his interactions with Pam were part of an elaborate play, suddenly the curtain would fall, or the director would yell cut and he could take off this mask he seemed to be wearing. </p>
<p>…</p>
<p>Later that evening, as he could smell the fragrances of the curry Pam was concocting and hear the crooning of Louis Armstrong coming from the radio in the kitchen, he grabbed his keys and snuck out the door. </p>
<p>He’d lied to Pam earlier, there were no house calls, there hadn’t been the night before either, or the one before come to that. The problem was that Pam liked to discuss the scriptures from that day’s mass over dinner, an exercise he had enjoyed to some extent before. But now, what could he say? ‘Oh, interesting point, Pam, about Christ’s teaching of love and temperance. Fun fact I’m in love with an atheist, whose mind, face and body mesmerises me, who I banned from my church and can’t get out of my head. Any suggestions?’ He laughed to himself thinking about Pam’s horrified reaction in this theoretical conversation. </p>
<p>He walked aimlessly, vaguely aware of his surroundings, turning every so often. </p>
<p>What was she doing? His atheist. Was she with the ‘9 times maverick’ or that ex-boyfriend from the fete? Had she found someone new and was at this very moment recounting a witty anecdote of her brief misadventure with a priest? Had she considered walking by the church? To see if it had passed for him. Maybe he hadn’t crossed her mind. </p>
<p>A tight pain rippled through him, like an ache that had struck him all of a sudden and consumed his body. Could she forget him so quickly? He felt like he knew her better than he knew himself and yet he knew practically nothing about her. Did she take her coffee black? Did she hum when she cooked or talk during a movie? Was she constantly running late, perpetually early, did she love mornings, up at the crack of dawn, or did she prefer to lazily stay in bed until noon? </p>
<p>He didn’t know. He desperately wanted to know. </p>
<p>
  <i>He had tried to know. That disastrous trip to her cafe, him holding Hillary, her sitting across from him, doing that thing every time he spoke. Almost as if she briefly left him, her body was there, but her mind was with someone else. He’d called her out on that. She didn’t like that, or maybe she had. She was so closed he couldn’t tell.</i>
</p>
<p> He wished she had told him something. Anything to cling onto now. Anything to think about at night as he lay awake ruminating on his decision and imagining the touch of her skin, the feeling of being with her, the intense joy of being inside her, making her cum, seeing her face, hearing her moan his name. And it wasn’t just The Night he would picture, some nights he just thought of their chats. </p>
<p>
  <i>Their conversation in the garden, the night he’d opened up to her about the foxes. Or the restaurant, seeing her approach in that fucking jumpsuit, the look she’d given him when he’d told her his name. She hadn’t even asked why he was there or given him her name in reply. She’d just smiled slightly and then sat down, looking as if she wanted to be anywhere else in the world than at that table. Even then, after that first glance, he had wanted to know her. He remembered he’d spent a lot of the evening thinking through how he could talk to her, away from the Godmother, away from her family. They hadn’t seemed like her family at all. Almost like she had been crashing the dinner, an outsider. </i>
</p><p>
  
</p>
<p>He turned a street and lifted his head. Hillary’s Cafe. He didn’t even know why he was pretending; he’d known exactly which streets he was following. The same streets he had followed every night for twelve nights now. The ones leading him to her. Not that she would be there, the cafe was always closed by the time he made his daily pilgrimage. Anything to feel closer to her. </p>
<p>As he headed up the street towards the cafe, he realised that tonight, the facade wasn’t in darkness. There was a light on. His heart simultaneously leapt and sank. She was so close. Maybe he would see her. If he did, he didn’t trust himself not to fall at her feet and beg for a second chance. </p>
<p>His pace quickened, or it slowed. He wasn’t sure what his feet were doing. Were they heading towards her, did they want to turn and run? It was such a mess. His thoughts fell like a jumble, images racing through his mind. He couldn’t quite grab any. Images of her, her body, her face as she laughed, her coy smile as she sat in his garden asking him about his celibacy, her walking into her father’s living room carrying that ridiculous floral arrangement, the last person he’d wanted to see as he attempted to break up with her Godmother and dad. </p>
<p>He was in line with the cafe now, on the opposite side of the road. The bright windows were like a beacon pulling him in. </p>
<p>And there she was, relaxing on one of the chairs, glass of wine on the table in front of her, guinea pig in her hands. She was laughing, everything was out of focus except her. She was talking. To the guinea pig? To herself? </p>
<p>He closed his eyes, shook his head and glanced back up. No, there was someone there with her. A man. He looked serious, he held a guinea pig too, a much smaller one. Did she have two? He only remembered one. The man had a suit on, he looked a bit gloomy. But she was laughing, was he her date? Had she brought this man to the cafe, in the same way she’d brought him a few weeks ago. Did she bring all her suitors here? Would she let this man play with her guinea pig for longer? Or maybe she would ask this man to leave, maybe she would remember him. Was she genuinely laughing? Or was it a show, a cover. She was good at putting a mask on, he’d learned that much. </p>
<p>She was wearing a red top, it reminded him of the dress she’d worn at the wedding. </p>
<p>
  <i> His thoughts drifted, he was in a little alley way by the side of her dad’s house, trying to memorise his homily. Just hours ago, he had been at her flat, worshipping her, pulling her close to him, hoping she would ask him to stay, or tell him she loved him. In the alleyway, he remembered her coming around the corner. He’d nearly jumped out of his skin, certain it was a fox, a herald appearing to warn him against his actions, his thoughts. But no, it had been her. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> ‘Oh! Oh God, fuck, you’re here,’ She’d been as shocked as he was. And a little bit awkward? </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> ‘Oh fuck! Jesus. I thought you were a fox. You’re not,’ he’d silently cursed himself for his response, not cool. Still, he’d had a quick glance round just in case. The little bastard foxes were prone to sneak up on him anywhere. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> ‘No, are you...? I didn’t know you were...’ she’d looked uncertain, oddly sombre. Did she regret it? Was she about to break it off? </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> He’d tried to gather his thoughts. ‘No, no I’m fine, sorry. No, I just didn’t want to…’ He had been about to say he didn’t want to see the fox. Didn’t want to see what he had long considered to be his own personal caution from above. Instead he’d finished lamely ‘…I’m practicing the homily.’ </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> ‘How’s it going?’ she had been oddly unattached. Why bother asking, she must have known it wasn’t going well. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> ‘Not good. Not good. I can’t, I can’t...’ he hadn’t been able to remember words, get his head straight, get her out of it. He’d glanced at her again and noticed her properly. There in front of him, looking beautiful in a red dress, red lipstick. She had looked uncertain but fearless. Radiant, like her beauty was shining right out of her and piercing a hole through him. He’d grappled for a second, wondering how to communicate this before settling on ‘You look lovely.’ </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> She’d smiled, ‘thank you so do you.’ It had felt so formal in comparison to how they’d spoken the night before, what they’d done. There was something wrong, he could feel it. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> ‘Wait til you see me in the full shebang you’re gonna lose your fucking mind,’ he had smiled back at her. The outfit they’d picked together, like they were just a normal couple out shopping. He liked that memory. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> As he had brought him himself back to the present, she had been laughing awkwardly.  All he’d wanted to do was launch at her, feel his lips on hers, his hands on her neck and hips. She had looked away; he couldn’t read her. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> He’d taken a deep breath before saying, ‘we just need to get through this bit, and we can, we can...’ </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Can what? Carry on where they’d left off? Probably. If she’d have asked him to. But she wouldn’t meet his eye, he willed her to look at him. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> ‘Yeah,’ She’d glanced around, uncertainly. Like she’d been waiting for him to do something. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> He should have ripped her dress off there and then. Forget the wedding, forget the homily, forget peace. His lips on hers, on her neck, on her breasts. Pressing her against the wall, hands running through her hair, her legs wrapping around his waist. Just a couple of quick moves, her underwear off, his belt undone, and he could have sunk into her. He could have pressed his face into her neck, taking in her essence, drinking her in, memorising every move, every touch as she moaned in his ear. Her arms pinned against the wall, as he buried himself into her, faster and faster, her breath quickening, his pulse thudding through him, just the two of them, the world crashing down around them. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> But he hadn’t ripped her dress off, they’d been in her dad’s backyard for fucks sake. He’d had to get it together. In an attempt to just get through it, he’d made towards the path to get away. ‘Better get changed,’ he had lamely gestured towards the house. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> She’d half turned, ‘yeah, good luck.’ Was that sarcasm? </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> He’d walked past her, he <b>had</b> tried. It was like she had a magnetic field radiating out of her body, drawing him in and there was no will in the world that could have forced him to pass her. So, despite the admonishment he had given himself literally seconds before, he’d found himself crushing against her, lips on hers, his tongue grazing her lips, teasing them apart, his heart was pounding out of his chest, surely she could see it, it must have been visible, his hands were caressing her cheek, frantically reaching for her, he vaguely remembered her bumping against the wall, he wanted to press into her, he wanted this to never end, but too suddenly she broke away. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> ‘Oh my God,’ she’d laughed slightly, her face was swaying, he couldn’t really see, she was so bright in front of him, glowing. His hands were on her hips, his groin crushed against her, but her hands were between them, like a barrier. Her head had bobbed slightly, he’d mirrored her, he’d needed his lips back on hers.</i>
</p>
<p>
    <i> ‘What?’ he was breathing hard, he was flying, was she going to open up to him? Tell him she loved him, ask him to pick her. He knew he would have; he would have taken her hand, they could have run. </i>
</p>
<p>
    <i> ‘You have lipstick all over your…’ </i>
</p>
<p>
    <i> Clunk. He had fallen. Oh God. He was a priest, about to perform a wedding no less. He couldn’t quite tell what it was that had brought him back to earth so suddenly. Was it her laugh? Her hands, an obstacle between them? Was it the realisation that she would not be asking him to stay with her? The metaphorical picture falling from the wall. Whatever it was, he had suddenly, soberly felt the full force of the situation. He scrabbled at his mouth, trying to wipe the remnants of her lipstick off. </i>
</p>
<p>
    <i> But his heart was still pounding. He’d grabbed her hand, he’d wanted her to feel it, wanted her to know. He didn’t know what the feeling was. But he had realised then, as she asked him if it was God or if it was her, neither did she. </i>
</p>
<p>
    <i> He’d had to get away then. Had to at least try to clear his mind. Think. The pull to her was so strong, it had taken all he had to force his body from hers. She hadn’t reached out after him. It would have been all over if she had. She’d stood and looked after him. It was like she’d been willing him to leave almost as much as he’d been willing himself. He’d heard the ‘fuck you then’, the call back to his initial unconscious flirtation. But he couldn’t respond. He’d practically sprinted to the spare bedroom he was using to store his clothes. </i>
</p>
<p>
As he stood, peering through the window of Hillary’s he wished he could go back to those moments, after the alleyway exchange. The moments of conviction.
</p>
<p>

<i> As he had changed into his vestments, a new homily was forming in his head. He’d known exactly what he was going to do. Love <b> was</b> awful, and you needed strength to make the right choices. And strength lay with Him. He had invested his love exclusively in Him for the last decade, it had felt like hope, it had brought him peace. And he had the strength to regain that peace. </i>
</p>
<p>
He had been so sure, during those moments. Even as she came out during the wedding, walking her dad up the aisle towards him, almost as if she was his bride being escorted towards him, his conviction hadn’t wavered. Even at the bus stop, as she had half asked/ half stated that it was God, he had been so certain. Of course, it was Him. 
</p>
<p>
How he craved that certainty now. What had happened to it? It had evaporated. And not through being close to her, not through some magic force field, muddling his mind. No. It had merely vaporised, as if he had never existed. As if during the wedding service, as he gave his rousing speech about love, some other being had taken over him. Some other entity had broken it off with her and told her it would pass.
</p>
<p>
‘It’ll pass.’ 
</p>
<p>
As much as he yearned for it to, as he stood watching her in her café, he knew for him at least, it wouldn’t pass.
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This one went a bit more angsty. Am still thinking about where I'm going to go with this, so feel free to suggest if you have anything you'd like to see!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The first encounter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one is a bit shorter and still very much filled with Priest angst. i'm quite enjoying him as a little lost puppy :(<br/>Next chapter he'll be getting his act together! And there will be more Flea! </p><p>Let me know what you think or if you have any suggestions.</p><p>Thanks for reading :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘What’s that scent?’ he muttered sleepily. He had been drifting off slightly, when the smell of a candle had wafted towards him, lulling him out of his drowsy, peaceful state. </p><p>‘Oh, sorry, I thought you were in the land of nod, I was trying to tip toe!’ Pam whispered as if she was still trying not to wake him. She picked up the large candle on the bookcase, ‘it’s amber and vanilla blossom Father, do you like it?’ she smiled broadly.</p><p>It was her. The scent filled his senses, it made him feel like she was right there, with him. If he hadn’t known better, she could have been next to him on the sofa, leaning against him, his nose pressed firmly into the top of her head, arms wrapped tightly, inhaling her.</p><p>He glanced at Pam, who was watching him quizzically, ‘I do Pam, yes. It’s making me feel a bit nostalgic.’</p><p>‘Oh, remind you of home, does it?’</p><p>Yes, it reminded him of home. It reminded him of the feeling of coming home, the feeling he had felt with her. </p><p>He hadn’t been sleeping at night. It had been two months now, and he had become used to his night-time routine. He would head up about 9.30, chamomile tea in his favourite mug, full of fresh hope that tonight would be the night he’d get some sleep, maybe even a full night’s sleep. Then inevitably, the hours would pass by, 11, 12, 1, 2. Intermittent thoughts: thoughts consumed with her, intermingled with energy expended on trying not to think of her, anything to rid her from his mind. Prayers, reciting scriptures, going over his parishioners’ names in his head, trying to match face to name for his next service. </p><p>
  <i>But she always came back, barging whatever thoughts he had out of the way, kicking them from his mind with that wilful spirit of hers. And he’d be right back to her, thinking of the first meeting, the last meeting. The light-hearted, easy meetings in the middle, before they had started anything, when they were still lightly tiptoeing around the gravitational pull they had both been feeling. The Quaker meeting, first half spent in serene contemplation, second half spent agitatedly picturing her tits. The night she wondered into his vestry and turned off his music. His shock, panic that he had somehow conjured her up through persistent thoughts and pure strength of will. Her calling him Father, a sly smile on her lips. His easy knock back, an accidental flirt, easy and light. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>He’d spent hours too, imagining scenarios where he would see her, accidentally bump into her, imagining what he’d say. Would she be with the solemn looking suited man from the café, or one of her other many admirers. Would she be alone, as wrecked as he was, hoping to see him? Would she be glowing, at peace and happy with her lot. Would she turn and run? Would she stay and chat? If she stayed to chat, would he keep it light, pretend he was well or dive straight in to let her know how much pain he was in. Would she have her usual walls up? Would she be so glad to see him that they instantly fell? </i>
</p><p>That’s why he had drifted off, in the living room, bible open on his lap. He was tired, bone tired. During the days, it felt like effort to move his arms, to dress, to smile. Sometimes in the confessional, he had to pinch himself to stop from resting his head against the wall and stealing a quick nap. One of his parishioners would be revealing their worst secrets to him, emotionally spilling their guilt, desperate for guidance and a helping hand, and it was all he could do to stop himself resting his head against the old wooden confessional and drifting into unconsciousness. Did that make him an awful person?</p><p>That evening in the living room, he had been reading one of the psalms:<br/>
<i>In you, Lord, I have taken refuge;<br/>
Let me never be put to shame.<br/>
In your righteousness, rescue me and deliver me;<br/>
Turn your ear to me and save me.</i></p><p>Ever since the night he’d seen her at the café, he had been really trying. Really trying. To repent, learn, focus on God’s grace, His generosity, His humility. He was really trying to move on. During the day, he was anyway. </p><p>His thoughts at night, his insomnia, weren’t quite following this same path. But he was making a conscious effort to move forward. After all, somewhere deep inside him was the certainty that had existed when he gave that sermon at the wedding, and afterwards, when he had walked away from her at the bus stop. It was there, he just needed to work hard to bring it back to the surface again. </p><p>Pam was fussing around him now, tidying bits and pieces, brushing some imaginary lint from his shoulder and asking if he needed anything. She meant well, he knew, but gosh she tested his patience. He stood up, catching the bible as it fell from his lap. As he stood, he glimpsed his reflection in the mirror. God, he looked awful. No wonder Pam was fussing over him, he looked sick. His eyes were sunken, with dark, dark circles, like bruises beneath them. His hair was too long, it fell messily, and his skin was deathly pale. He wondered what his parishioners thought of him during his services. He needed to do something about this. He needed peace, from his own mind, peace to allow him to sleep. </p><p>-------------</p><p>The next day, he finished up his mass service and after hearing a couple of confessions, he headed to the rectory to change into regular clothes. He had an appointment with the doctor, his GP, hoping to get something to help with his insomnia. He was filled with a refreshed hope, tonight would finally be the night, tonight, he wouldn’t lay in the darkness, picturing her. He trudged down the stairs. The hope he was filled with made him want to bounce, but honestly, he just didn’t have the energy.</p><p>Heading into to the doctor’s surgery, he checked in with the receptionist, giving her a friendly smile and wishing her a lovely day before heading to the waiting room. It was busy, a large number of elderly men and women, reading, chatting, one lady was knitting what looked like a very long yellow scarf. There were a few parents and babies, maybe he’d steer clear of them. Along with having no idea how to talk to them, he imagined this current deathly semblance could cause a few tears, definitely from the babies, and probably from the parents too.</p><p>He chose a seat next to a man with a flat cap on, who looked to be in his seventies and was propped forward in his seat, leaning heavily on a walking stick. After exchanging a couple of brief pleasantries (It always shocked him how different people were towards him without his collar on. With it, they seemed to want to offload their worries before he even had a chance to say hello, without they wanted to curtail his friendly greetings as soon as they could.), he reached forward to grab a magazine and heard a slight cough, an involuntary clearing of the throat.</p><p>Glancing up, instinctively he somehow knew before he saw. It was her. Sitting directly opposite him, one leg crossed over the other, phone in hand, she was staring right at him. His heart constricted in his chest, felt like it had risen to his throat. He swallowed, trying to force it back into place. His whole body jolted. An electric shock, starting in the soles of his feet and penetrating his entire body, surging through him; his hair was probably standing on end. Why wasn’t she reacting? She could surely see his whole body had momentarily convulsed. She was just staring at him, her phone was still sitting in her palm, fingers curled loosely around it.</p><p>She looked ok, she looked well. She looked better than he did anyway. Was she sick, hurt? Why was she here? He studied her. Her hair was the same, tucked behind her ears, a slight curl. She was wearing a skirt, striped top and that little wishbone necklace she always sported. He’d always wanted to know what that symbolised, if anything. Maybe atheists just wore jewellery, without thinking of the symbolism. To him, it had always symbolised hope, a bright future. </p><p>She looked exactly how he had been imagining in his mind, through all those sleepless nights. She looked like heaven. </p><p>He opened his mouth, what would he say. Why had all words deserted him? He was never stuck for words, even in his current worn out state, he could still find words. Words to his parishioners, light chatter with Pam. He couldn’t think back to a single time in his life when there was not a single word in his head. Say something! Say something, you idiot... </p><p>Hello, he could say hello.</p><p>‘Hel –,’ they both glanced at the screen on the wall, which was pinging, interrupting. It had her name displayed across it, in bright letters, ‘go to Dr. Mitchell’s office’, it instructed her. She turned back towards him and shrugged before gathering her bags and heading towards one of the doors. </p><p>And with that she was gone. He turned to the old man next to him, waiting for his reaction. He must know what a fucking monumental moment had just occurred. Did he realise that the earth had momentarily stopped spinning on its axis, the sky had fallen and been resurrected, in the blink of an eye? Was this man blind? How had he missed that? </p><p>The man merely coughed. </p><p>Ok. So maybe in his exhausted state, he had been overestimating the outward appearance of the moment, but inside he was bubbling over. He felt his blood coursing through his veins. After two months, since The Night, since the goodbye and ‘I love you too’, he had seen her. He sat for 15 minutes, waiting for her to reappear from behind the closed door, jumping every time a door opened or someone was called. He didn’t know what to do with his hands.</p><p>Suddenly the screen was pinging, and he saw his own name flash up for Dr. Smythe. Where was she? She hadn’t come out yet. Taking a breath, he stood, it was ok, he could go to his appointment and she would be waiting for him, when he came out. She would wait, he knew that like he knew the sky was blue. She would wait.</p><p>-------------</p><p>In the doctor’s office, Dr Smythe surveyed him over her spectacles, ‘so, tell me what’s brought you in today Mr…’ looking down at her notes, she glanced back up, ‘oh, Father. You’re Father.’ </p><p>He stared back at her, God he was tired, already sapped of energy, and drained further by that short episode in the waiting room. </p><p>‘I’ve not been sleeping,’ he began. ‘I’m having… trouble.’</p><p>‘I see,’ she smiled, it was a warm smile, nurturing and filled with affection. ‘So, you’re suffering a bit of insomnia, let’s see how we can help…’</p><p>-------------</p><p>Fifteen minutes later, emerging from the doctor’s office, fresh prescription for some mild sleeping tablets and a referral to a psychiatrist in hand, he scanned the waiting room. Searching for the mop of brown hair. Frowning slightly, and running his fingers through his hair, his head whipped from side to side. Where was his atheist. She said she’d stay, she said she’d wait for him. Hadn’t she? Or did he imagine that?</p><p>‘God dammit,’ he blurted out, as the memory came back to him. They hadn’t spoken. But he’d been so sure she would wait. Why hadn’t she waited? He headed out of the building, eyes darting, looking for her. She couldn’t have just left, surely. A thought came to him, maybe she was still in the appointment. Maybe she’d had a longer session. He settled on a bench, eyes on the surgery door. It was a pleasant day. Sunny, warm but with a comfortable breeze. He loosened the collar of his shirt and relaxed back, legs outstretched, arms folded across his chest. He thought of what he would say when she came out. He needed something ready, his mind would probably turn to mush if the waiting room had been anything to go by.</p><p>What did he want to say? I’m sorry, please forgive me, please tell me you haven’t moved on, please tell me you still love me, I need you, I love you, I love you…</p><p>‘Father…’ he woke with a jump, his legs flailed in the air and his prescription, balancing precariously on his chest fell to the floor. </p><p>She leaned over and picked it up, momentarily bent over, before bringing her face up. It was one of his parishioners, Fiona was it... or Phoebe… No, it was Faye. Yes, Faye.</p><p>‘Hi Faye, how are you? Thanks,’ he greeted her, taking the prescription from her.</p><p>‘Oh, I’m well Father, of course, but how are you? Are you unwell?’ she was eyeing the prescription.</p><p>‘Oh no, nothing deadly,’ he laughed gently. </p><p>‘You were sleeping pretty deeply Father, but - ,’ she glanced towards the sky, ‘looks like the heavens may open any minute, I didn’t want you getting caught.’</p><p>‘Thanks, Faye. What time have you?’</p><p>‘It’s about 3, Father. I’ve got to be heading to pick up the littl’uns actually. I’ll see you on Sunday.’ She headed off.</p><p>‘See you Sunday.’ </p><p>3pm. He must have been sleeping for an hour. There was no way she was in there still. She hadn’t waited. She hadn’t wanted to speak to him. Why? Was she still angry, upset, indifferent? He wasn’t worth waiting for? He had been making a concerted effort to avoid the café, ever since the night he had seen her there. He briefly pondered whether to go there now, to find her. Ask her why she hadn’t waited. Find out what was going on in her mind. What she was thinking? </p><p>But he’d been making such an effort.  He would unravel it all if he went to see her. Maybe her not staying was a sign. A sign from Him that he was on the right track. He was headed towards peace, finding his way. It was what he wanted, wasn’t it?</p><p>Turning, looking around on the spot, he put his hands on his head, pushing his unruly hair off his face. He knew what he wanted. Sleep. He headed towards the nearest pharmacy, prescription in hand.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The sexual substitute</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So I did a double update and this one is a Fleabag POV update. i just kind of got interested in what she was thinking when they saw each other and it turned into this. </p><p>I think next one will be back with Priest. I think. i am so changeable though :/</p><p>As always, thanks for reading! :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She hadn’t meant to let him know she was there. </p><p>When he had walked in, glancing around, in that fidgety mannerism he had, she was going to just let him slip by. Then he had sat down directly in front of her. He hadn’t noticed her, he tried to make some friendly conversation with the old man next to him. The man frowned at him and huffed. </p><p>Then almost as a reflex, she had coughed. Almost like her body was forcing her to get his attention despite her brains instinct to leave him be. His entire body froze. He was reaching for a magazine on a low-down table beside his seat, his hand was hovering over the magazine in mid-air. His head was bowed. His hair was longer than she remembered. Messy. Ultimate bed hair. She briefly recalled how she’d run her hands through it when he had kissed her and as he was going down on her and when he was on top of her. Oh yes, it was good hair. And it looked good today.</p><p>The time between her cough and him lifting his head felt like years. He recognised her from the sound. He must have, he wouldn’t have behaved like this otherwise. </p><p>Finally, finally, he raised his head to look at her. Her mouth dropped slightly, he looked… well he looked awful. Obviously, he was still him, but honestly, he looked awful. Red rimmed eyes, bruised underneath. He was so pale, almost translucent. What was wrong with him. He was at the doctors, she supposed, so made sense he wasn’t looking his best.</p><p>He wasn’t wearing his collar, or anything else to signify his vocation. He had on a dark grey short sleeved shirt, the sleeves cut off just at the widest part of his biceps and the top button was undone.  </p><p>HIS ARMS. HIS NECK. She gazed at his beautiful arms and up to his neck. He swallowed visibly. She saw his Adam’s apple bob. Wonder how long it took for that hickey to fade, she thought to herself.</p><p>He was staring at her, his entire body was frozen on the spot but his eyes, oh fucking hell his eyes. The deep brown eyes were fucking piercing her. He looked like he wanted her to disappear. He did not want to see her. He opened his mouth and just then, saved by the bell, her name was called. </p><p>He’d be thanking his God just now, she imagined. Perfect timing buddy, she lifted her eyes to the ceiling. She grabbed her stuff and practically sprinted into the doctor’s office. She didn’t look back. </p><p>---------------</p><p>He was gone from the waiting room when she was done with her appointment. Just a woman’s health check, pretty quick. </p><p>She briefly considered waiting for him, but then she remembered his reaction to her, frozen, tense. It was best to just let it be. He hadn’t changed his mind surely; he would have told her if he had. He knew where she worked, where she lived. He could tell her. No, she headed to the exit, she wouldn’t wait for him. </p><p>Walking down the road, she lit a cigarette, her mind on her Priest. He must be sick. He was in the doctor’s surgery, so all signs pointed to illness. Plus, he looked terrible, like he hadn’t slept in a month. She didn’t really know how she’d find out if he was ok. There was no way, she supposed. Except maybe…, did Claire still go to that church? She knew Jake went, but Claire wasn’t particularly religious and now that she and Martin were over, it was doubtful that Claire would go. But, it was the best option she had, so she fired a quick text off to her sister, enquiring as to whether she had been to the church recently.</p><p>Heading back to Hillary’s, which she had left in the semi capable hands of a twenty something art student named Delia, she began scrolling through her contacts to hunt out a date for the night. Now that the Priest was firmly planted in her mind, she’d need a substitute, someone to satiate her needs.</p><p>Settling on Army Dude, a guy she’d met a couple of weeks ago whilst out for drinks, she sent a text asking if he was around tonight, interested in coming over. This particular man was phenomenal to look at, strapping shoulders and arms, rock hard abs, pretty sure he had an eight pack for fucks sake and a bloody beautiful cock. It had done some great things to her and for her. </p><p>In the two months since her priest had left her at that bus stop, she had gone through many romantic interests, too many men to count and a handful of women too. The irony of course was that there was zero romance in any of the dalliances. No connection, no flirtation. She kept it strictly business only. Get in, get her off, get out. A total ban on romance. After the heartbreak at the wedding, she couldn’t face it again. Her heart was shattered. There wasn’t enough of it left to give to anyone else so why bother pretending. It wasn’t something she dwelled on. </p><p>At around five thirty, she sent Delia home, Army Dude had replied he would be around at about ten-ish so she had a while to prep. The Priest had been on her mind all afternoon. She'd had a response from Claire saying that no she had not been to the church and this text bloody well better not mean that she was planning on going, and she should just stay away, like he'd asked. Alright Claire, no need for the aggression. Easy tiger.</p><p>Despite his ghostly pallor, he had still looked good. That shirt certainly did things for him, she could see his toned physique behind it. She knew his body like she knew her own, she’d memorised it that night, etched it in her brain. Subconsciously, she had probably known it would be her only chance. Plus, now, she spent every night with it. Every night with a new man or woman in her bed, all she had to do was close her eyes and she was with her Priest, he was kissing her neck, tugging her lip with his teeth, softly whispering her name into her ear. </p><p>She was definitely in an evolved enough space to admit to herself that she had used each and every sexual conquest in the last two months as a fill in. A sexual body double. A few times she had even accidentally said his name out loud, right as she was in the throes. She didn’t feel bad. They got over it. She knew it wasn’t healthy. But what the heck, it was getting her through.</p><p>As she finished cleaning the café, she quickly grabbed Hillary out of her cage. She’d been trying to give her more human contact, trying to show her a bit more affection. Stephanie too. The hamster with an identity crisis. </p><p>The bank manager had been round a few times to visit Stephanie, sometimes with his wife, sometimes without. But always platonic. It was a nice feeling. To have a man come and see her as nothing more than a friend. Not wanting her body. He sometimes stopped after she closed and had a glass of wine with her. She was really growing to love his gloomy vibe, he made her laugh. </p><p>After a quick cuddle for both creatures, she deposited them in their cage and headed home. To prepare for Army Dude, she showered, shaved everywhere, applied copious amounts of coconut oil and had a quick pre-game wank. Might as well get in the mood she reasoned. </p><p>The knock on the door alerted her to his arrival, she’d just downed half a bottle of wine, and she had her Agent Provocateur on underneath her coat. Operation Army/Priest Sub In was a go. Hmm could do with a catchier title. She’d come back to it. </p><p>She opened the door and Army Dude was there. He looked pretty enticing, just as big shouldered as she’d remembered. It didn’t really matter, she supposed, since her mind would be filled with her Priest, but it didn’t hurt anyone that Army Dude was an absolute snack. He wasted no time and shoved through the door, arms around her back and waist and lips straight on hers. </p><p>And now was time for the big show. </p><p>As he kicked the door shut behind him, pushed her against the wall and took off her coat, she closed her eyes and willed her priest into her mind. </p><p>
  <i>Suddenly instead of Army Dude, she was kissing her Priest. His lips on hers were tender and then fiery. Scorching, passionate. His tongue parted hers, God he was talented with that tongue. He smelled of citrus and warm cinnamon, she wished she could have bottled that scent, the gorgeous irresistible smell of his neck, as his hands moved down her body. His groin was pressed against hers and she could feel how hard he was. It turned her on. </i>
</p><p>Army Dude knelt and removed her underwear, she felt his tongue against her clit. Ok, yep, she could work with this. </p><p>
  <i>She closed her eyes and felt her Priest grab her hips and pull her in, closer to him, his tongue was magic, it drove her crazy as he nipped and sucked. Swirling his tongue over her, the first time he’d done that he’d made her cum so quickly that she didn’t think he’d even realised. Two orgasms in quick succession from that beautiful talented tongue of his and he had looked up at her, his chocolate brown eyes gazing in wonder, it seemed, as his hands grabbed onto her hips, caressing her skin like he wanted to be as close to her as humanly possible. Or as spiritually possible knowing him. As his tongue got faster and stronger against her clit, she’d looked down at him, running her fingers through his hair, alternating between cursing and whispering his name. Now was not the time to call him Father. She had the feeling that that was not a sexual kink he would appreciate. It turned her on more even thinking it. She came loudly, a string of expletives, crying out for God. She wondered if he’d noticed that.  </i>
</p><p>Suddenly Army Dude picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder and marching up the stairs to her room. She knew the drill with him, tit for tat. As he deposited her on her bed, he undressed himself, she lay back and took a moment to admire the body. After all, she was using him to satisfy her sexual Priest urges, but she wasn’t made of wood, she could still appreciate the rock-hard abs and thick hard cock. It was pretty impressive. He joined her on the bed, grabbed her head and kissed her again. He was making motions towards his cock, she knew what he wanted. He lay back and she made her way down there. </p><p>As her lips closed around the girth of his head, and began sliding up and down, she recommenced her holy scenario. </p><p>
  <i>Closing her eyes, she took herself back to her Priest. They’d been standing, as she’d kissed down his chest and finally got her mouth around him. She actually really enjoyed blow jobs; she usually liked the immense feeling of power it gave her as a man became putty in her hands. With her priest it had been different though, she wanted to give him pleasure. She wanted to make him cum and see his face as cried her name. But she didn’t want to take his power. She’d started slow, wet lips around his shaft, moving down and then tongue sliding along the underside. He tasted salty. Her hands gripped the shaft tightly, spiralling slightly and she prepared to engulf his entire length in her mouth. She put a hand on his arse (very tight) and pulled him closer, she wanted him to fuck her mouth. But before she could get any sort of rhythm going, his finger was on her chin, he was pulling her off him and up to his face. He’d said he needed to take it slow, didn’t want it all over too quickly. Of course, this was his first time in ten years, he’d be coming faster than a sailor on leave if she wasn’t careful. He said he wanted to get her off at least ten times. Aha! Hot misogynist lawyer had gotten to him.</i>
</p><p>Back in the real world, Army Dude was indicating he was about to cum, she had to give it to herself, she was pretty talented in the mouth department, even when she wasn’t trying. She withdrew and moved up his body, grabbing a condom and unfurling it over his hard penis. Then she was straddling him, and it was priest time again. </p><p>
  <i>As she straddled her Priest, she watched his face. He closed his eyes for a brief moment before settling them on her. He was looking straight into her eyes. She was done for. She had fallen so fast that she hadn’t even realised she was in love with him until she was in way too deep. And here, with his hands on her waist, moving her up and down on his cock, and then his hand on her clit, shifting all the focus back on to her again, she could hardly breath. Complete joy, like she hadn’t felt in years, was radiating from her. He was all hers, her very own cool sweary Priest. She leaned down, placing her lips on his, gently biting his lower lip before brushing her lips over his neck. She wanted to mark him. Mark him as all hers. No one else could have him, not even his God. Definitely not his God. She gently bit his neck and, when he didn’t protest, she began to suck at it, taking in the citrusy smell, delirious with the sensations of his finger still on her clit and the rhythm of him inside her. When a small bruise formed on his neck, she leaned back biting her lip, she grinned at the mark mischievously and he smiled back at her ‘you little fucker,’ he’d muttered, ‘my collar better cover that.’</i>
</p><p>
  <i>It was slightly disconcerting that he’d thought of his clerical collar right at this moment, but she’d put it out of her mind. Almost immediately. Not like it was a choice really. The thought had been forced out of her mind as she’d had what felt like her tenth orgasm of the night before quickening her pace, greedily waiting for him to cum. She wanted to see his face, hear him cry out her name in ecstasy as he did. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>When he’d called out to God, she couldn’t help but call him Father. He hadn’t reacted to that. Definitely no adverse reaction. Interesting, something she’d bank for another time perhaps. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>He’d just kept on thrusting his hips beneath her, hands all over her as he came. He was piercing her with his eyes again, staring with such intensity that she’d felt a sudden urge to cry. Crying during sex was not her, she had never done that. She held back the urge and leaned down to kiss him as he called her heaven. She’d lain down, heavily sated, and so utterly peaceful in his broad beautiful arms. She’d fallen asleep almost immediately, the gentle rhythm of his breathing, his chest against her cheek lulling her into a deep and dreamless sleep. </i>
</p><p>Army Dude cried out, he’d cum. She cried out too, wanting to make him feel good. She didn’t bother kissing him again. She hopped off him and headed to the bathroom as she heard him get up off the bed.</p><p>‘Listen love,’ he called out, ‘I’m usually well up for staying and some morning nookie.’ (Nookie? Gross) ‘But I’ve got an early one, so I’ll head off now. You were fantastic as always gorgeous.’</p><p>Business transaction done; she was happy with that result. After he’d gone, she lay in bed, wondering what her Priest was doing. Back when it first happened, those first few weeks, she would have cried about now. Cried at the lack of his presence, the aftermath of the detached sex she’d just had, tears streaming as she thought of his warning to never go near his church, the ‘it’ll pass,’ he’d given so easily in response to her confession of love. But now, she merely lay thinking of him, hoping he was ok. Though she’d cursed him at first, screamed, yelled into her pillow as she thought of his choice, she’d come to realise that her anger was so strong because her love was so strong. she felt it so strongly, as her dad had said, so it was all the more painful when it was gone. So now, she merely hoped he was ok. </p><p>Of course, if today was anything to go by, he was not ok, physically at least. But hopefully he was at peace with his choice. </p><p>As she turned off her light switch, she closed her eyes and just like every night, whispered a silent I love you to her Priest.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Ok, but not thriving</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Come for some Priest early childhood memories, stay for the Fleabag reunion ;)</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>His parents weren’t particularly religious. His mam would go to mass on Christmas and Easter, his dad he couldn’t ever remember going. It was his nana who took him, who introduced him to God. She was the one who persuaded his parents to get he and his brother baptised, he supposed his da had gone to church on that occasion. Unless he had missed it in a drunken stupor, which was pretty likely. His nana had made all the arrangements for their first Holy Communion too, he had been 7, his brother only 11 months older. She planned a celebration afterwards, invited the extended family, arranged some gifts to mark the occasion. </i>
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  <i>His mam’s contribution to the day was memorable, a full glass of wine in hand, a good few bottles in by that point, he remembered her crying and hugging him, telling him how much she loved him and how she could never live without him. She was weepy when she had wine, overly tactile and full of sentiment that didn’t accompany any of her favourite spirits or her increasingly rare moments of sobriety. Her proclamations of love hadn’t made him feel particularly special; before he’d even had the chance to reach out his arms to her, desperate for a maternal touch, anyway he could get one, she had moved onto a distant aunt, exclaiming how much she’d missed seeing her and brushing tears from her eyes as she claimed they must plan a trip together, and must promise not to lose touch ever again.</i>
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  <i>He and his brother had been quite close back then. He remembered his brother coming over, shrugging, ‘nothing we can do,’ grabbing him a can of coke and a party ring biscuit, purple his favourite, and dragging him to the makeshift dance floor, where some cousins were bopping along to Wham!.</i>
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  <i>His da meanwhile had come to the party (not the church) and immediately grabbed a whiskey. His heart had sunk at that, whisky meant angry. It wouldn’t be long until Dad picked someone at the party, began what started as lively debate and ended in one or both of them taking a swing at the other one. Beer he could take, beer Dad just meant quiet, brooding, moody. Beer Dad meant that so long as you tiptoed, didn’t make a peep, didn’t bother him, you would be ok. But whisky Dad. Well he would ruin the party. Whisky Dad required no provocation, he could become aggressive on the turn of a dime, you just had to exist for Whisky Dad to react. </i></p><p>
  
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</p><p><i>Luckily, Nana had also noticed this drink choice and had marched straight over to Da and persuaded him to head off to the pub after putting in a requisite 20-minutes at his two sons most important religious celebration of their little lives to date. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Next came his confirmation. By this time, seven years later, his nana was nearly 65 and getting a bit too frail for his liking. He was a good 14-year-old by most standards, especially compared to his brother. He spent the majority of his nights at Nana’s house, sleeping in the little spare room that he had turned into his own little den. On one wall was Ireland’s football team, fresh from their World Cup victory (ok, quarter finals, but my gosh had they made the country proud), next to them was a poster of Sean Connery as James Bond. So fucking cool in his tuxedo and bow-tie, his nana wouldn’t let him display the other poster he had brought over to her house, the one with Honey Ryder… in that bikini…</i>
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  <i>On another wall there was a bookcase filled with rows and rows of books. Literary worlds that he just loved to get lost in, where he could imagine he had a loving whole family, where the mam didn’t ignore her son’s existence completely until she was at least a bottle in, where the da didn’t get inches from his son’s face and rage about what a useless, boring, wimpy sod he was just because he wanted to finish reading his chapter before going down to the off license yet again to replenish the vodka and whisky supplies (nineties Dublin certainly didn’t care about underage drinking like it did now).</i>
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  <i>At his confirmation, he’d chosen St. Thomas Aquinas for his confirmation name, patron saint of Educators, Students and Learning, it was the closest saint he could find to books and reading, the one thing he truly loved to do. His brother chose St Sebastian, patron saint of Sports. Having long since ditched the church, attending only when Mam did, his nana was attempting to get his brother through his confirmation. She was having a hard time of it, he was much more interested in rugby, football, girls, smoking, drinking, girls, rugby, more rugby. And more girls probably. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>His da didn’t attend his confirmation. He doubted nana would have invited him anyway, but as it turned out, one afternoon, about a week before the big day, he had been sitting on the sofa at home, feet tucked beneath him, bible leant on the arm of the chair, and his dad had raged into the house. Slamming the front door, stomping to the kitchen, pouring a glass of something and coming into the living room, he wasn’t sure what it was that had set Dad off, maybe the sight of his fourteen year old son reading holy scriptures instead of out drinking with his mates, maybe the seven hours’ worth of alcohol he had poured down his gullet that day, maybe the low buzz of the radio in the corner, a trigger for some inner rage. But something had gotten to him, he had lifted him up, grabbing at his collar, yanking him to his feet, face inches from his, saliva bunching up in the corner of his mouth, ‘you lazy son of a bitch, I can see why no one wants you around here, you’re pathetic!’ he could feel his dad’s spit flicking on his face. He’d flinched at the proximity of his father, the insults mostly went into him and straight back out, he’d built his defence barrier years ago to this kind of thing. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘Why don’t you just fuck off, get out of here and stop bothering us all with this crap,’ he’d picked up the bible, torn the page and screwed it up in his face. ‘You think you’re so much better than us, with your bible,’ he spat that word like it was a curse word, ‘and your reading, so fucking pious. Go on, just get out, you filthy waste of space.’ </i>
</p><p>
  <i>His dad had grabbed the collar of his polo shirt and thrown him with such force against the coffee table that he could see stars as his forehead hit the wood. It had brought tears to his eyes, the shock of it, he reached up and felt blood, sticky, congealed in his hair. After a moment, getting himself together and willing the tears to stop, Da would surely have hit him if he knew he was crying, he had grabbed the torn bible, eyes down, and fled from the room, racing up the stairs so fast that he twice tripped over his own feet. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Once in the room that he supposedly shared with his brother, he decided that was it. He had been practically living with his nana for a while now anyway, might as well make it official. He grabbed his black Adidas duffle bag, shoved some clothes in, his school uniform, a pair of old Levi’s, a bunch of shirts and a handful of stuff from his underwear drawer. Then he had flung his school backpack over his right shoulder, the duffle over his left and bolted from the house. Grabbing his bicycle from the alley by the side of his house, he had pedalled fast, blood streaming down his face. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Arriving at his nana's house about 10 minutes later, he remembered her face as she opened the door, shock, anger, then tears as she pulled him into the fiercest hug he thought he’d ever receive in his life. She hadn’t even had to ask what had happened, she didn’t mention the duffle bag of clothes by his side, she just pulled him in to the house, tears in her eyes as she told him she loved him.</i>
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  <i>In the end neither of his parents had attended his confirmation. His dad obviously wouldn’t step foot in the church and he wasn’t even sure his mam had noticed his absence from the house. His brother hadn’t come either. Not a surprise, he hadn’t really ever expected him to show up and actually go through with the Sacrament. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Despite this chain of events, the confirmation day <b>was</b> a happy day. His nana by his side as he went through the ritual, and afterwards she had taken him for lunch. Just the two of them, chatting about school and his friends and about her weekly coffee club. That night, even though he was fourteen and much too old, she had tucked him into bed, tucking the corners of the comforter right around his ears, making him laugh as she sang him a lullaby, like she used to when he was little, before placing a quick little peck on his forehead and wishing him happy and peaceful dreams.</i>
</p><p>‘Father?’ </p><p>He blinked, focussing his eyes. It was Pam.</p><p>‘Father, just checking on you, mass starts in a few minutes.’</p><p>Always checking, always popping by as he was changing. Oh, Pam. He sighed and looked in the mirror, he was mostly ready, his mind had wondered slightly, remembering his grandma, but he had just his amice left to put on. Today was All Saints’ Day, the congregation would be a little bit larger than usual, he was wearing his white cassock, golden embroidery down the middle and on the arms, not his favourite. White was required for the Holy Day. </p><p>“I’ll be there in a minute Pam, just a couple more adjustments to make,’ he turned back and began reciting his prayer as he finished dressing. </p><p>Having finished dressing, he grabbed his bible and headed through the door of the vestry.</p><p>In the month since he had last seen his atheist, he liked to think that he had gotten back on track. The sleeping tablets had definitely helped, they sent him into a dreamless, restful sleep within minutes, and, with his energy back, with the ability to function properly during the day, he had begun to focus properly on moving on. It had been clear to him that day, the day when he’d seen her at the doctor’s surgery, that she had moved on. She didn’t want to talk, wasn’t prepared to wait, there was no use in looking back. If he wanted to regain his peace, he needed to focus on Him. </p><p>She still crossed his mind, probably hourly at first, or even by the minute. More so whenever he saw something that reminded him of her, Jake in the church band, a café, any woman with a mop of short brown curly hair… Ok fine, he had thought of her A LOT at first. But with time, and many, many hours of prayer, he had managed to get it down to only a few times a day, sometimes when he was out walking and he saw peonies in someone’s front garden, he would think of her. He would have given her peonies on their first date he thought. But then he would shake his head, shake the thought out and she was gone.</p><p>Every day, he was inching closer to peace, his sermons were no longer solemn, they were filled with hope and love. Pam had commented on the change.</p><p>He still wasn’t certain. No. That certainty, the one he had had at the wedding, the certainty that he was making the right choice in walking away, <i>that</i> had never made a reappearance, but he was regaining his peace. And peace was good enough for him. Even if it was peace with the semi-frequent nagging doubt that something was missing.</p><p>Up in the pulpit, he looked down at the congregation, Pam was sitting in the front row, grinning up at him, bright white teeth, palms crossed on her lap. </p><p>He focussed his gaze, opened his bible and began. </p><p> </p><p>—————-</p><p> </p><p>His sermon was going well, his parishioners mostly looked engaged, he gazed around at them as he came to the end of the homily. </p><p>Holy fuck!</p><p>He hastily glanced down at Pam, she wasn’t reacting, he hadn’t said that out loud, thank God. </p><p>But there was someone in the pews he recognised, not her. Not his atheist. She was banned after all. </p><p>It was her sister, Claire. She was with Jake. Jake was fairly regular at his Sunday mass service, but Jake always came alone, never with Martin, never with Claire. They were with someone else; he could tell by the way Claire sat. Too close for it to be a stranger. It was a blond man, tanned, a wide grin plastered to his face.</p><p>He shook his head, forcing them out of his mind. Finish the service, think later. </p><p> </p><p>—————</p><p> </p><p>When the service ended and the congregation began to stand, he stepped down from the pulpit. Think quick, what should he do? Go and talk to Claire, see how his atheist is? Avoid her, continue on the road to peace?</p><p>His legs were moving him towards the front of the church. Talk to her, keep it casual. Don’t mention her sister. Besides, he thought to himself, willing his decision to be the right one, he had to go the exit, he had to say goodbye to everyone, he couldn’t avoid them all just because of one person. </p><p>He hurried towards the door. Decision made; he was desperate now not to miss Claire. As his parishioners left, he wished them a good day and thanked them for coming. He was fidgety, he was aware he was fidgety, he didn’t know what to do with his hands, his eyes were flitting, looking out for her. Then finally, Jake appeared, a beanpole standing out amongst the others, and Claire beside him, dark hair tucked behind her ears, and the blond man. They were definitely together. He was so smiley as they made their way towards him, like this man knew him and they were old friends.</p><p>‘Claire!’ he exclaimed as they finally reached him. ‘And Jake,’ he reached out to shake the teen’s hand. ‘What a pleasant surprise, to have you here on this today. I’m so happy to see you. And nice to meet you,’ he turned to the blond man, who by now was grinning and incessantly bobbing his head, looking from Claire, to Jake, back to him.</p><p>‘Father,’ Claire looked happy, she was beaming, ‘lovely to see you, and this is Klare.’</p><p>‘Klare? What – uh?’</p><p>‘Yes Klare…! And Claire…!’ she pointed to her blond friend, and back to herself, laughing joyfully like it was the punch line of a joke.</p><p>‘Klare with a K! Lovely to meet you Father,’ the blond Klare reached out his hand. He had an accent, somewhere in Europe? Nordic? Maybe Denmark or Finland. Was this the business partner Claire had mentioned? Finnish, he must be Finnish, she had mentioned at that dinner that she commuted there.</p><p>‘Klare, lovely to meet you, how are you? Is that a Finnish accent I detect?’</p><p>Klare laughed with glee. Why was everyone so happy? Whatever drugs they were on, he sure wouldn’t mind some.</p><p>‘It is of course!’ Klare exclaimed merrily. ‘I've heard all about you Father. Heard so much. I’m so happy to see you, finally.’ On that last word, he turned towards Claire, gently bumping his shoulder against hers.</p><p>Heard about him. From who? Claire? Or, he supposed the Godmother might talk about him. She had made many attempts to see him since the wedding, inviting him to parties and exhibitions, but he had politely declined each time, stating a busy time with the parish. Unsurprisingly, she hadn’t wanted to see him so badly that she had made her way to the church. Yet.</p><p>Or maybe Klare had heard about him from his atheist. Maybe she talked about him. His heart lifted at the thought. Stomach fluttering.</p><p>Klare was still chatting, ‘Claire and I, we are one, together. And I have been begging her to let me come to this church, for months now, I love the beauty of churches, so ornate, don’t you think father? Well of course, of course you must.’ Klare was practically giddy.</p><p>Claire beamed at Klare; she was gazing at him. ‘Yes, and since Jake sometimes comes here, we invited him, you know his father doesn’t tend to come.’ She raised her eyebrows.</p><p>Why hadn’t she invited her sister? Maybe she had. Maybe she was holding true to the ban he had put on her coming here. Maybe she had wanted to come? Maybe she was waiting outside, as close as she could come without breaking the ban. Or maybe she was with her suited solemn man and their menagerie of guinea pigs, had expressed no interest in Sunday mass. Probably. </p><p>Jake was gazing at Claire intently, she hadn’t realised. She was so focussed on Klare. The whole thing was quite sweet, they were like a little family. The drug they were on, it was love, he realised, with a sudden sinking feeling. His stomach felt like it had deflated at this thought. He wasn’t too sure why.</p><p>He opened his mouth. Could he ask about her. just casual inquiries. How’s the family? How’s your dad, your sister? Would Claire realise what he was doing? She knew there was something. He knew she knew from that time when he had called and asked for her sister’s address. He’d been able to tell from her voice through the telephone. It was stern. Like a parent who wanted to admonish another person’s child but realised it wasn’t their right to.</p><p>There was a small queue forming behind the happy family, people waiting to leave, to wish him a good week. Claire and Klare had noticed too. </p><p>‘Well Father, we’d better be moving along. Don’t want to hold you up,’ she said, still grinning. It was quite disconcerting. He didn’t remember this version of her sister. She had been uptight, a little cold. God, love <i>was</i> awful. Or it was wonderful.</p><p>They were heading towards the door, Klare and Claire, hand in hand, Jake bobbing awkwardly after them. It was his last chance, should he call after them and ask? He was grappling, another parishioner was in front of him. Suddenly, Claire turned, hand still in Klare’s, body twisted. </p><p>‘She’s ok. Not thriving but…, she’s ok.’ She said it so quietly he had to strain to hear. </p><p>She’s ok. But not thriving. But she’s ok… she’s ok...</p><p>His thoughts were interrupted by the lady in front of him, thanking him. He said a hurried thanks, turned back to Claire, but they were gone. </p><p> </p><p>—————</p><p> </p><p>Later, he was back in his black trousers, shirt and collar and sitting at his desk in the vestry, notebook in front of him. He was supposed to be writing his sermon for tomorrow. But he was distracted. </p><p>Ok. Not thriving. But ok. What did that mean? Not gleefully happy, not bouncing off the walls on the drug of love like Claire and Klare. Not ecstatic with where her life was headed. But conversely, not in the midst of a depressive episode, unable to get out of bed and wishing her life was different.</p><p>Ok…</p><p>Content? Passively happy maybe? Like the kind of happy where you like getting up, seeing friends, grabbing coffee, but aren’t particularly excited about anything. Or maybe it was ok meaning slightly miserable? Nothing in life is too bad, but days mostly blend into one another, and you sort of find yourself just existing. </p><p>He didn’t know which one he preferred it to be. He knew he would hate for her to be sad, ok verging on miserable. But if she was content that meant she wasn’t missing him, he selfishly thought.</p><p>He considered his own wellbeing. Was he content? Or was he miserable? </p><p>Actually, he was ok. Just ok. Not thriving, but ok. </p><p>Maybe they were just the same. Two souls, living life separately but existing on the same plane. Experiencing the same emotions, connected but apart. </p><p>He glanced at the clock. 7pm. He wondered what she was doing. Cooking dinner maybe. Or out to dinner. Ok, but not thriving. An overwhelming urge came over him. He wanted to see her. He wanted to see what it meant. Ok, but not thriving. It was like Claire had given him a riddle, and now all he wanted was to solve it. </p><p>Before he knew it, he found himself headed to the rectory, breezing through the front door, and taking the stairs to his room, two at a time. What should he wear? Something to remind them both he was a priest seemed the obvious choice. What he was wearing now would do fine. Except look at what had happened last time, the collar certainly hadn’t helped, hadn’t acted as the holy shield he had hoped it would when he had headed over to her flat late that night, in the rain. </p><p>So maybe instead, just something casual, no collar. Maybe jeans. Just a friend, checking in on a friend. Seeing if she was ok. Ok, but not thriving. He felt nervous, like he was going on a date. He sat on the bed. Would he really do this? It seemed like a silly decision. He would change whilst he was deciding. Give him time. He settled on some jeans, dark, and a maroon cashmere sweater. Casual, nothing ‘churchy’ as she had once called him. He brushed his fingers quickly through his hair and grabbed some cologne. Why was he putting on cologne? He was a friend, calling round to a friend. It's nice to smell nice when you see friends, he reasoned. </p><p>He grabbed a coat and went downstairs, seeing Pam in the living room, he called out to her that he was visiting a friend. </p><p>‘Shall I wait up Father?’ </p><p>‘No, I’ll be home safe, don’t you worry Pam. See you tomorrow.’</p><p>Sometimes Pam behaved as if she was his wife or live in girlfriend. It sometimes frustrated him, tonight it amused him. He laughed to himself as he walked towards the front gate. His spirits were high. He was going to see a friend; it would be nice to catch up. </p><p>Before he knew it, he was on her street. What was he doing?!?! </p><p>He could see the window to her flat, they were lit. She was in. What if she wasn’t alone? What if he knocked on the door and found her snuggled on the sofa with her new beau? Should he turn? Maybe this was a mistake. He could head back. </p><p>He rubbed his temples. God why did everything about her make his mind so muddled. Every thought he had was accompanied by three more taking him in every other direction. Was that a good sign? She challenged him, made him think. Or was this chaotic mind just another sign that they weren’t meant to be? Again! His mind was muddled thinking about whether his mind was muddled.</p><p>He took a breath, there was nothing for it, he would just knock on the door. If she was with someone, then there it was. An answer. If not, then… well then…</p><p>He was at the door. The light in her window was flickering, she must be watching TV. He reached up to the buzzer, his hands were shaking. Fuck he hoped he was doing the right thing. </p><p>Buzzer pressed; all he could do was wait. The seconds seemed like an eternity. He could see a shadow through the glass. She was so close. </p><p>Suddenly the door opened, the brightness in contrast to the dark of the street shocked him, he squinted his eyes slightly. It was her, his atheist. Standing on the doorstep, looking like she had seen a ghost. His heart leapt to his throat, he hungrily drank her in, her hair looked the same, she had no make-up on, not even her token red lipstick. She looked lovely with no make-up on. She was wearing grey sweatpants, a white tank top, stringy straps, no socks even though it was November and by all accounts, absolutely fucking freezing out. That wishbone necklace was round her neck, hanging loosely, right on the bit he had kissed and bitten on The Night. He swallowed. </p><p>She was still staring at him. Hadn’t said anything. There was half a smile playing on her lips. </p><p>He swallowed again, say something doofus. ‘H- hi,’ he stammered, he felt his hand move up and give a little wave. </p><p>She stared back at him, ‘hi Father.’ </p><p>‘I – uh, hi... Yeah, I – um.’ He was still stammering; his mind was mush again. ‘I, so I – uh, I wanted to see how you were.’</p><p>‘I’m ok.’ </p><p>‘Yes, I heard that.’</p><p>‘You heard that?’ she replied sharply, eyebrow shooting up. ‘Heard that? From who?’</p><p>‘From your sister,’ his throat was so dry. So Claire hadn’t mentioned that she’d seen him. Purposefully? Or because it was insignificant? Would she invite him in?</p><p>‘From Claire...?'</p><p>‘Yes, your sister, she was at my church today. With Klare, and with Jake. She told me you were fine.’</p><p>‘You asked about me then?’ the eyebrow disappeared even further. The smile had gone.</p><p>‘No, not really, not exactly. But – ‘</p><p>‘So you didn’t?’</p><p>‘Well – I, uh, well I.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, licking his lips, God they were so dry. ‘I wanted to, I couldn’t work out how to –,‘ he couldn’t think anything except please invite me in. ‘Anyway, she mentioned you were ok.’</p><p>‘How nice,’ she was being unusually cold, it was a mistake, his coming here. ‘She tell you anything else Father?’</p><p>He flinched at her calling him Father. He felt a twinge in his stomach. Twice in the space of minutes. It felt so intimate. Despite the fact that everyone he met called him that. With her, it felt like she was reaching into his throat, locating his heart and yanking it a bit further every time she said it.</p><p>‘Not really, I – uh. Well I wanted to see for myself. How you were I mean. What ‘ok’ meant.’</p><p>‘Ah – right. Well now you see me. Does this confirm I am indeed, as Claire said, ‘ok’?’</p><p>‘I’m not sure,’ he cocked his head to the side slightly, trying to read her, ‘I honestly can't tell what you are.’</p><p>She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly aware of how little she was wearing. ‘Well, I'm cold Father.’ Another twinge. ‘What are we doing, are we going to wrap this up?’</p><p>Wrap this up? She was getting rid of him. </p><p>‘Uh – well. Do you, I mean, are you – Are you busy? Do you have time to catch up?’ In for a penny, in for a pound right.</p><p>She took a step back, she looked completely taken a back. Had he shocked her? He smiled at the thought.</p><p>‘I’m not busy.’ She took another step back, opening the door wider and headed away from him into her flat. That meant go in right? Did that mean go in? He took a tentative step over the threshold, peering around the corner to where she was sitting on the sofa, she’d switched the television off.</p><p>‘Are you coming in Father?’ Twinge, was that four now? ‘Can you shut the door, I’ve got the heating blasting, you’re letting the cold in.’</p><p>Ok, it meant come in. Heading into the living room, he closed the door and looked around, hands fidgeting. It looked the same as it had last time he was here. Cosy, various random objects lying around, lived in, welcoming. He noticed a small statue of a ladies bust on the bookshelf by the TV. To the left of it was a picture frame, his atheist and a blond girl, and Hillary wedged between them, everyone in the photo beamed, well except Hillary, Hillary was wearing a tiny little hat. </p><p>Where to sit. Not on the sofa with her. He looked around himself, before settling on the chair by the window. Safe, a good distance to catch up with a friend.</p><p>‘So,’ she was smiling again. Was she enjoying this? Enjoying his unease? ‘You brought yourself over. To see if my sister is a liar?’ </p><p>He laughed awkwardly, ‘a liar! No, no, I didn’t think she was lying. I –‘</p><p>‘I’m joking Father.’ Twinge.</p><p>‘Oh. Ha ha.’ It wasn’t really funny, his laugh felt forced. ‘Hey, um – could you do me a favour, and not call me Father? It’s just – ‘</p><p>‘Oh, because it turns me on just to say it you mean?’ she was definitely enjoying this. He felt that twinge again in his stomach.</p><p>‘I just..., it feels a bit weird.’ Suddenly, the smile playing on her lips irritated him. Why was she trying to make this harder for him? ‘Look, I’m trying to… - I wanted to…. – are you trying to make this harder than it already has to be?’</p><p>‘Excuse me?’ she leaned forward on the sofa, arms resting on her knees, top hanging precariously around her cleavage, ‘you just showed up on my doorstep, out of the blue, after months. What exactly about this am I making hard <i>Father</i>?’ she glanced at his crotch. She glanced at his crotch! She was so brazen, he wanted to laugh.</p><p>‘I just meant –‘</p><p>‘Oh, I know what you meant, Father,’ twinge, twinge, ‘you wanted to come over here, see me looking happy so you could convince yourself you made the right choice. You want me to make this easy for you. Well I’m not going to.’ She stuck her bottom lip out.</p><p>‘I don’t want you to make it easy, I just want to see you. See you’re ok.’</p><p>‘Ok…. Ok….’ She was raising her voice. ‘You left me at a bus stop, less than 24 hours after you showed up on my doorstep and spent the night making love to me. And yes, it was making love, it wasn’t just sex. You told me it would pass, you told me you chose some imaginary guy over me. And now you show up here and you want me to tell you I’m ‘ok’ so you can go about your merry, holy life without having to worry anymore. You come here, dressed like a regular guy by the way. Where’s that collar when you need it? Convincing yourself you’re here for my own good, to check in, when all you really want is to relieve your own guilt about using me, using me and dumping me. You dumped me twice in fact. Twice in two days, AT THE SAME FUCKING BUS STOP. Admit it, you can’t live with the guilt of it, your little God won’t let you, so you’re here to make yourself feel better. Tell me that’s not why you’re here.’ </p><p>She was daring him, but she had it all wrong. She had it so wrong. He wasn’t here out of guilt, or obligation to her, or to Him for that matter. He wasn’t here to check on her and move on. </p><p>‘You are so wrong.’ His voice was raised now. ‘You couldn’t be further from the truth.’ He got up and paced towards her. ‘I’m not here because I feel guilty, I’m not here out of any sense of obligation. Fuck, can’t you see. Can’t you see what you have done to me.’ He was angry, angry at her for making him feel these emotions, angry at Him for prohibiting him from expressing them, angry at himself for everything. ‘I can't fucking handle it. I’m here because I cannot do anything, other than be here. It will not fucking pass, I fucking wish to God it would, but it won’t. Didn’t you see me, that day at the doctor’s, I was a mess. I know I was a mess. I don’t know how to be, how to exist, without being with you. Can’t you fucking see that.’ Where had this anger come from? He hadn’t even realised it was inside him, suppressed.</p><p>She was standing now, her cheeks were red, blazing. One strap of her top had fallen down her arm, her eyes were glistening.</p><p>‘What the fuck are you talking about.’ She was yelling. ‘You! You’re a mess. What about me. You did this. You left me. You made your choice, you left me to pick myself up, put myself back together. What I’ve done to you?! What about what you’ve done to me. It took weeks for me to feel like I was even a human. Weeks of dragging myself out of bed, going through the motions, sneaking past your fucking church,’ there was a hint of derision, ‘trying to catch just a <i>glimpse</i>, trying work out what the fuck to do with my life now, now that I’m in love with a fucking priest,’ she laughed bitterly. ‘What have I done to you? What exactly have I done to – ‘</p><p>He took two paces, he closed the gap between them. His mouth was on hers, his hands wrapped tightly on her waist, pulling her into him, he wanted no space between them, nothing. She was kissing him back, her hands were wrapped around his neck, her lips were slammed against his, so hard he was sure they would leave bruises. His tongue was against her lips, urging them open. He could hear the blood beating in his ears, he could feel her eyelashes, fluttering against cheeks, slightly damp, from the tears she had been fighting. </p><p>His hands were on her hips, pulling her against him, they were on her bare skin, between her sweatpants and her top, moving up her body. She felt so smooth, so warm against him. She was grinding her body against his, he could feel his cock getting hard, under his jeans. Fuck. </p><p>She was pulling him, down onto the sofa and suddenly he was on top of her, his lips on her neck, sucking and biting, and then they were on her chest. He whipped the tank top off, and his lips were on her breasts, back on her lips, her tongue was parting them, his whole body felt on edge, like he was hanging over the precipice, about to jump, about to glide.</p><p>She was grabbing at his sweater, tugging it over his head and then his belt. Fast fingers, furiously yanking at the clasp and then pulling his remaining clothes off. And he was dragging her sweatpants down and her underwear. And she was holding his cock, rough, firm, guiding it towards her. He thrust in, one smooth thrust, hard and fast. He heard her name escape his lips. He was moving, fast, furious, slamming against her, he reached down to her clit and began to circle his thumb, she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him into her. His mouth was back on hers, she tasted sweet, like honey. </p><p>As his finger moved faster, he could sense she was getting closer, her hands were wrapped around his neck, her eyes on his, she was saying his name, over and over. Then she was screaming it, crying out in pleasure, and then he joined her. He could smell her familiar scent, he wanted to close his eyes, he was in pure bliss, but he wanted to see her. Her eyes were on his, chocolate brown, staring straight into his soul, just like before. There was no space between them.</p><p>Afterwards, he collapsed onto her, her chest was heaving, her legs still tight around him. His face was in her neck, he was panting hard. He had to collect his thoughts. This time he had to make her hear him. He was still in her. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to separate himself from her. He propped himself up, forearms either side of her, noses touching. He breathed in deeply, inhaling her. This time she would hear him.</p><p>‘I love you. Ask me to stay,’ he whispered gently, as he brushed a rogue curl off her forehead. She was smiling up at him, she was grinning, she was biting her lip. He leaned forward and kissed her, softly, tenderly. It was like every other kiss he’d ever experienced in his life had never happened. There was just this one kiss, here, with her. </p><p>He pulled back, breathing heavily against her, his eyes were closed. What would she sa - </p><p>Before he could finish his thought, she was whispering back, he could feel the vibrations of her words against his lips. </p><p>‘I love you. Please stay.’</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Much more than a ripple</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When he had finally moved, fallen against the back of the sofa and pulled her against him, into his chest, into his arms, it crossed his mind that he hadn’t felt peace like this before. Certainly not in his early life, not even with his grandma. But he also hadn’t found this feeling in the nearly 15 years he had been in the seminary and then working as an ordained priest. It was the feeling he had been striving for, the feeling he had wanted his whole life. </p><p>It was coursing through his body, he felt grounded here with her in his arms, but also like they were floating, no one could get at them or between them. She had twisted so she they were facing one another, he had one arm curled under her, hugging her to him, one pressed on her waist, pulling her as close to him as possible. His legs were entwined in hers, feet mixed up at the end of the sofa. The last time they had been this close was in her dad’s garden, in the alleyway, when he had been so drawn to her that he’d had to forcibly drag himself away. She had had her hands up between them, guarding. This time was different. Her hand was on his face, stroking down his cheek, brushing over the hint of stubble, the other curled onto his chest. His heart was thumping. He knew she would be able to feel it.</p><p>Neither of them spoke, they lay like that for a long time. Him in complete peace, and her..., well he didn’t know, but he hoped it was somewhere close to peace. He’d not known her to go so long without speaking. He hadn’t known himself to go so long without speaking. But there was nothing to say. </p><p>After a while, she had gotten up from the sofa, hand in his, pulling him up with her. She had led him to her room, to her bed, where she had pulled him on top of her again. This time they were slow, deliberate. The opposite of the frenzied, impulsiveness following their row. He relished the feeling of her, her neck, her hair between his fingers, the curve of her waist, her breasts, her legs wrapped around his. He slowly, gently touched his lips to hers, it sent shivers through him. Her forearms were snug against his back, hands on the back of his neck. He was leaning on elbows, hands either side of her face, one pushing her hair back, one curled on her cheek. As he moved inside her, slowly, deliberately, he brought his face back, so he could see her. The half-smile of earlier was gone. Now she was smiling so broadly, she looked as happy as he felt. Like if the world just crashed down around them now, they wouldn’t mind because they would be here, together. Her hands were playfully caressing his neck. She leaned up towards him, mouth on his, tongue tracing along his bottom lip and then parting his lips, sighing gently into him. Her right hand came down and met his, fingers intertwined. It was like a dream, all those times he had laid in bed, imagining her with him, unable to sleep, craving her touch, remembering her scent, yearning for her sweet sighs in his ear. Except it was real, she was here in his arms.</p><p>When she came, it wasn’t with the frenzied cries of earlier, there was a kind of serenity in her eyes, in her moans as she pushed her hips against his and whispered his name, telling him what he was doing to her. She pulled him towards her, he buried his face into her neck, she spoke softly in his ear, telling him to let go. He sank into her, the pleasure crashed over him, engulfing him.</p><p>As he tried to catch his breath, heart thudding loudly, she had spoken softly, ‘you created quite the pleasurable wave then, Father.’</p><p>‘So more than a ripple?’ he had chuckled back, breathing heavily.</p><p>‘Much more than a ripple.’</p><p>‘I thought I asked you not to call me Father,’ he thought back to their argument earlier.</p><p>‘I know,’ she grinned slyly, ‘I think now’s the time to tell you it <i>does</i> turn me on just to say. And..’ she pulled him closer, gently biting at his earlobe ‘I can think of ways you could turn <i>that</i> to your ultimate advantage… <i>Father</i>.’</p><p>Definitely a twinge, definitely not a bad twinge. </p><p>‘Sweet Jesus woman. What…’ he placed his lips on her neck, ‘are you…’ on her collarbone, ‘doing…’ on her breast, ‘to me…’</p><p>She laughed, and he collapsed on to the mattress beside her, both on their backs, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t have to look at her to know her smile was as wide as his was.</p><p>After his breathing had stilled, he hopped up, looking around for his clothes, ‘downstairs,’ she said, one arm behind her, supporting her head, sheet at her stomach. She looked delicious, should he just climb back on top of her, make her come over and over again until she pleaded for relief?</p><p>He studied her from the doorway; it was a nice thought….</p><p>No. He knew what his plan was now. He had been considering it as they had lain on the sofa, woven together. He had been mistaken before, those times when they had been together, at her café, or out shopping. He had been trying to get her to open up with questions, probing and thoughtful. It was how he got most people to open up, ask them a question, get an answer. Fairly standard practice amongst most. But she was different. She needed something first, something from him. Something to be able to trust him with her feelings. He knew why his gran has come into his head earlier that day, he knew what she needed from him. He would open up to her. Tell her everything. She needed to know it all.</p><p>With immense difficulty, he dragged himself out of the bedroom and headed down the stairs. Throwing his boxers on, he found the tiny kitchen. They needed sustenance. It was 11pm, he was starving, she probably was too. Rooting around in the kitchen, he found some glasses for water. Her cupboards were nearly bare, either she had been eating out a lot (with who? He didn’t want to think of that), or she was a buy as you need kind of girl, or just liked ordering in? He couldn’t imagine her to be a keen chef, despite the fact she owned and ran a café. Oh well, plenty of time to find that out. </p><p>Finally, in the third cupboard, he located half a packet of chocolate digestives, delicious, he hadn’t had those in years. Grabbing the biscuits and considering what the lack of food meant for their breakfast plans, he climbed the stairs. Last time, the night before the wedding, he hadn’t stayed for breakfast. After their joint shower, he had headed off, off to write his homily, off to think about how he would get through the wedding.  Tomorrow morning, he would stay. After all, she had asked him to. A smile crept onto his lips.</p><p>Back in her room, she was idly staring at a painting on her wall, an abstract, maybe one of her mother’s? </p><p>‘What you thinking about?’ he put the water on her dresser and clambered over her into the bed.</p><p>‘Just wondering whether you were coming back, or whether you had decided to dump me in my own flat this time, instead of at a bus stop.’</p><p>His head turned sharply towards her, was she... she was laughing. She was joking. Phew. </p><p>‘You nutter,’ she grabbed a biscuit, ‘I’m not letting you and your beautiful body go just yet. If I really thought you were deserting me again, I would have been down at the front door, double lock. Key swallowed.’</p><p>‘So, you’re just using me for my ‘beautiful body’ then are you?’ he challenged. ‘I think there are plenty of people out there with better. And a lot easier to trick into bed than a priest I’d say.’</p><p>She pulled him close, foreheads touching, ‘there is nobody better.’ His stomach fluttered. ‘Trust me, if there was, don’t you think I’d have found them by now? I’ve certainly given it my best shot,’ she finished happily, taking a bite of her biscuit.</p><p>Ooof. </p><p>A hint of jealousy rose in him as he thought of what this meant, the men that had come before him. But as he looked into her eyes, the feeling dissipated as quickly as it had come. She was here with him; she could be with anybody. Jealousy was not a welcome feeling in this moment.</p><p>Turning to more important matters, he said, ‘Ok, so your kitchen looks like no one has cooked in this flat since you’ve moved in. Do you even have an oven? Or just use it as excess storage for wine?’</p><p>She chuckled, batting his hand off the biscuit packet, but giving no response. </p><p>Ok, now be serious.’ He put the biscuits on the side and sat up against the headboard. Head angled towards her. ‘I have something I want to talk about.’</p><p>It was quick. Almost unnoticeable, but she had done that thing. Where, for a split second, it seemed like she was leaving him, engaging with some other unknown person or thing in the room. </p><p>‘There!’ He was almost triumphant, he pointed at her. ‘Where’d you go? You left me. You’ve done that before!’ </p><p>‘What? I did not!’ She knew what he was talking about. He knew she knew. </p><p>‘You did! You know I see it.’</p><p>‘I… - </p><p>‘Ok whatever. We will come back to it,’ she obviously wasn’t ready to talk about it. He grabbed her wrists, narrow between his thumb and forefinger, dragging them towards him so their arms were between them, resting on the sheet. </p><p>‘So…’ He was staring at their hands, ‘I wanted to tell you about me. About how I got to be here, to be in the priesthood.’ He felt his face flush slightly, before flicking his gaze upward, eyeing her uncertainly. Did she want to know? </p><p>She was looking intently at him, ‘Ok.’</p><p>‘Ok?’</p><p>‘Ok.’</p><p>
  <i>And so, he told her. He told her about his nana, how he had never felt so content as he did when he was with her, watching The Late Late Show on a Friday night, or sitting in the garden with her, both reading, nana with her Mills and Boon novels, and him reading Roald Dahl. He told her about his parents. His da, and how he changed based on what kind of drink he had, how he would scream and shout at him for no reason other than his existence, how his mam would ignore him and his brother until she had had a drink. He told her how his brother used to get them ready for primary school in the morning, how Nana would drop round with some dinner. He told her how his brother had changed when he went to secondary school, a year ahead of him, and how he had started drinking, sometimes even with his dad, who actively encouraged his pre-teen sons to drink. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>He told how he and his brother had drifted apart somewhere in their early teens, how he had nearly fallen into the very same crowd his brother was in, except for the fact that unlike his brother, he still enjoyed going to church on a Sunday, he still enjoyed going to his nana’s house on the weekends for dinner.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He told her about his first communion, his confirmation, the story of how he had ended up living with his nana. </i>
</p><p>All the time, as he told his story, she sat, absorbing it in. She didn’t do the thing. The thing where she left him. Not once. She had twisted her body, so she was facing his. She had pulled him into her, arms around him. She had listened so intently, at one point he wasn’t sure whether he was still talking out loud or whether she was just seeing his thoughts, seeing his memories. </p><p>
  <i>And then he told her about the worst bit. The bit he had tried all those years to forget. His nana. At only 68, had become ill. She could no longer get around easily, she couldn’t cook, or travel to the shops. He had taken care of her, teaching himself how to make some basic meals, paying the bills for her, arranging her hospital appointments and getting her meds. Most days he would stay with her instead of going to school. His mam never came around, his brother came once. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>And then… </i>
</p><p><i>He was seventeen. And he couldn’t understand. Why would God take her like this? Why would God take away her just as he needed her? Wherever she had gone, she wasn’t here with him. He just couldn’t understand.</i> </p><p>
  <i>If it weren’t enough that she was gone from his life, he also came to the realisation that without his nana, he would have to head back to the house his mam and dad lived in. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>So, faced with the decision of moving in with his parents or moving on completely, he had packed his bags the day of the funeral, headed into Dublin. He had been two months away from getting his Leaving Cert.  In Dublin, he had found some of his brothers’ old mates from school. His brother wasn’t amongst them, at this point he hadn’t seen or heard from him in months. Armed with no qualifications and a fragile sense of hope, he fell in with the wrong crowd. He couldn’t remember much of those years. Lots of drinking, lots of sex too. As much as he could get, from any woman who would give it to him. He lost his virginity to a woman twenty years his senior, blacked out from a drinking binge, he couldn’t remember much of it. He did know that the feeling he got, each time he found a new girl, felt the closest to love he thought he’d find again.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Sometimes the girls would stay with him for a while, they would spend a few weeks, or a few months, never more, crashing together at friend’s houses, working shifts in the pub. Sometimes the girls would just stay for the night, moving on because they had just fancied a quick fuck, not caring that he was looking for someone to pour his damaged idea of love into.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He didn’t really mind either way. He just knew he had to keep chasing the exhilaration of feeling loved, of having someone cry his name, of having a rush of love course through him each night. </i>
</p><p>‘Of course,’ he said to her, chuckling to himself, elbow on the mattress, chin propped up on his palm, his other hand on her cheek, ‘I know now that it wasn’t love. It was sex.’</p><p>She leaned towards him, ‘my completely sex crazed sex OBSESSED priest.’ She planted a quick peck on his nose, ‘I bet he was way funner than the version I’ve got now. Can you bring him back, he could stay instead?’ She snickered before pulling the sheet up to her eyes, mock afraid of his rebuke.</p><p>His eyes widened, a smile on his lips. She was teasing him, bringing him back out of his troubled memory. He moved quickly, whipping his leg over her, straddling her, hands around her wrists, forcing them above her head. She was laughing.</p><p>‘Take that back,’ he growled at her.</p><p>‘Never!’</p><p>‘Take… it… back,’ he leant down, biting her neck, gently at first, then harder, as she continued laughing. </p><p>‘Ok, ok, please, Father. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m ready to atone for my sins.’</p><p>He winced, rolling off her onto the other side of the bed. Two references to the church. He wasn’t sure he liked that. He wasn’t sure he liked that at all.</p><p>She was serious again now, he wondered if she had noticed his sudden mood change. She was sitting up and fixing her brown eyes on him, ‘I’m sorry. I prefer the lovely man currently in my bed to anybody else who could possibly exist. And I want him to finish telling me. Can you finish telling me?’</p><p>The rush of pouncing on top of her, mixed with the unnerving sensation that had arrived straight after made him feel a bit peculiar now. </p><p>She lay back down, snuggling herself into his chest, picking up his arm and wrapping it around her, and said, ‘you were telling me how you were looking for love by having lots of sex.’ She looked up at him expectantly.</p><p>
  <i>He couldn’t remember much of those years. He just knew he had been trying to paper over a crack. A crack in him, one that had begun as a child each time his mam turned away from him when he was in need of comfort, that got wider every time his dad screamed and snarled in his face, over something he had done or not done. A crack had turned into a chasm, after he had lost his nana. </i>
</p><p>
 At this, she wrapped her arm around his neck, pulled his face to hers, forehead on his. He could feel the love radiating from her. Through those months of trying to forget her, those nights of pain as he tried to push her out of his mind, he realised now it had been entirely hopeless. He was meant to be here with her. It was God’s plan, He truly meant for them to be together.
</p><p>
  <i>Finally, he told her how one day, at a particularly low ebb, hungover from a weeklong drinking bender, dumped by the most recent ‘love of his life’ after she had found his version of love ‘too intense and a bit creepy’ (her words, not his), he had finally found his way back to the church. He had been walking past a church in Dublin, red eyes from lack of sleep, unshaven and in last night’s clothes, and he had heard the sound of the choir. It had taken him back to the years with his gran, the feeling of comfort and home, so he had taken some tentative steps inside. The priest, he suspected now, had probably take him to be a homeless man, probably taken pity. But as he sat in one of the pews at the back of the church and listened to the service, it had made him remember the teachings of love, forgiveness and hope.</i>
</p><p>‘So, I spent many years with that church,’ he finished, she was still focusing on him intently. ‘I attended mass daily, revisited the scriptures, reworked my views of death. It helped me come to terms with why Nana had been taken. Because He was waiting for her in heaven, and in turn the two of them are waiting for me.’ </p><p>She flinched.</p><p>‘Not yet of course. I believe God has set me on this path to you, I have to work out what He has planned for us first. But someday…’ his thoughts drifted to his Nana.</p><p>She coughed quietly.</p><p>‘Sorry. And someday, she’ll be waiting for me, and for you,’ he glanced at her, she shifted, eyes not quite on him. ‘If you’ll join us, of course.’</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Eggs?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi guys, hope everyone is staying safe and INDOORS. </p><p>Sorry for large gap between chapters, I lost track of time slightly! We have a bit of Priest domesticity here.</p><p>I might do Fleabag POV for next chapter.</p><p>Let me know in comments what you think, any suggestions and as ever, thanks for reading.</p><p>#stayathome</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometimes, he noticed, her eyelids fluttered slightly in her sleep and she sighed, almost imperceptibly. He wondered what was running through her mind. Maybe she was dreaming of him. Or maybe one of the other men who was probably in love with her. He wondered whether she had been expecting someone round last night, had had to cancel when her friendly struggling neighbourhood priest had shown up instead.</p><p>He knew she had a past. He had one too of course. It was just hers was so much more recent. As in, probably less than 24 hours recent rather than some 10 years. He would definitely have to work on his feelings of jealousy. This feeling hadn’t cropped up at all whilst he had been maintaining a relationship solely with Him. He’d pushed it down last night, when she’d mentioned her dedicated search for a lover. But it was a feeling he knew well; one he had experienced in his past life. Did he have a right to be jealous, he thought, and if so, who should he be jealous of? What about that man who had been at the cafe that time? Was she still seeing him? Was it a regular thing?</p><p>He sighed, she turned slightly, her face angled towards him on the pillow. Her lips were perfect, puckered slightly as she slept. Maybe she had just asked him to stay last night because she knew how badly he had wanted it. She’d taken pity on him, in his needy state.</p><p>He’d been watching her sleep for an hour now. He realised that if she woke up right now, she would definitely make a jibe about how creepy he was. She slept quite peacefully barely moving at all, although she <em>had</em> pulled herself out of his arms at some point during the night. She had one hand below her cheek, one lying on the mattress between them, almost reaching for him. Her legs were curled towards him. She had a light grey t-shirt on. She hadn’t been wearing that when they’d fallen asleep. With a happy jolt he realised it was his. He’d been wearing it last night, under his sweater. She’d pulled it off him downstairs, in a frenzy. He wondered what time she had left him to go down and get it.</p><p>When they had finally fallen asleep, after he had finished opening up to her, he had felt a slight sense of unease. His bringing Him and the afterlife into their conversation had caused her to shut off slightly. She had planted a kiss on his lips before settling back into him. But she hadn’t looked him in the eyes. He knew she was an atheist. She was<em> his</em> atheist. But he hoped they could at least discuss some aspects of his faith. It was such a big part of his life, he wasn’t sure he could share a life with her if she couldn’t at least allow him that.</p><p>It was unsettling. It had been on his mind as he pulled her in close, breathing in her scent and kissing her neck as her breath began to slow into a rhythmic pattern. It was on his mind now.</p><p>He needed to work out what the plan was. He obviously couldn’t function without her, look at how easily he had gone from convincing himself he was on the road to peace to turning up at her door. He wasn’t even sure it had been a properly conscious decision.</p><p>It was as if the moment he’d seen her sister in the pews, it was fate that he would be at her house by the end of the night.</p><p>It obviously wasn’t going to pass. He had been fooling himself. Look at how well he’d slept last night, without the aid of any sleeping pills. The first time he’d managed since The Night.</p><p>The problem was that he still loved being a priest. Despite the feeling he’d been getting during his mass services these past few months, the feeling like he was playacting, he <em>did</em> love helping out his parishioners, providing a comforting ear to those in need, praying with those who needed hope or a boost to their faith. He loved spending his time analysing scriptures, he loved how new interpretations could surprise him, how he could re-read a certain passage and find something completely new and joyous jumping out of the text.</p><p>He truly believed God was out there, looking out for him, for his atheist, for everyone. He believed God had a plan for them all. But then, if that was the case, was God’s plan for him to continue as a priest? Or was it for him to be here? With her. God had certainly led him to the church on the day he had given up his life of alcohol and sex and re-found his belief. So, God had also led him to her family, to her, at a time in her life when she had wanted him, at a time when he wanted her.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>That day, the day they had first addressed their feelings. The day she had gotten angry with him, snatched Hillary from his arms and abruptly asked him to leave her cafe, he had spent many hours considering why she had come into his life. He had headed back to the church, taken confession for a couple of hours and then, still upset with the way she had dismissed him, ploughed into the whisky. Replaying the conversation in the cafe over and over, considering the reasons that God may have put her in his path, right at this moment. Was it to provide her with a friend, provide her with someone to confide in, despite the obvious indication from her that she didn’t want him to pry? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And if He wanted him to help her as a friend, why had He allowed such intense feelings to grow. Was it a challenge? ‘Prove your love to me, don’t act on these feelings towards this woman.’ This complex, intriguing, clever, lost, witty, beautiful human. </em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>With each shot of whisky his thoughts had become more and more erratic. Anger towards her, why didn’t she want to answer his questions, why had she brought up his celibacy, and with it, sex? Why had she put those images in his mind? But then these feelings had turned softer, he thought with fondness of her wit, her comment in the Quaker Hall, the pain she must be in having just miscarried a baby, her laughing at him as he told her about those bloody foxes, she’d been laughing, but her eyes were kind. Loving. Generous. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>When she had taken him to the cafe, she had been uncharacteristically shy, talking it down as they headed there, walking closer to him on the pavement than was strictly necessary, his arm brushing against her sleeve with each step. He should have moved it, moved away. She had been so vulnerable, had told him the cafe was slightly odd, an acquired taste, he probably wouldn’t get, didn’t need to lie to her. But he’d loved it. It was so wonderful, eccentric yes, but so her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>With the next shot of whisky his anger had turned towards Him. Why would He challenge him this way? He was at peace; he was a good man with a generous and enthusiastic love for Him and for humankind. He had gone through many challenges to get here. Why was He challenging him again? It was cruel, He wasn’t cruel. He was forgiving and kind and loving. But He was being cruel now. It made him angry. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’d become increasingly unsteady, he thought of her, of her lips, her neck, of running his hands through her hair, to her chin, her breasts and onto the curve of her waist. He thought of how she’d looked at that dinner, in that jumpsuit. That fucking jumpsuit. When she’d sat down, throwing a sideways look of slight disgust towards him, not bothering to introduce herself, how he had been so entranced. She’d been subdued, but he could tell she wasn’t usually. She was someone who lit up the place, he just knew. She had been so withdrawn. Observing the family, it had felt, to him, like everyone was waiting for her to say or do something wrong. And she had been intent on not giving them anything. Not giving him anything. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>During that dinner, looking back, he hadn’t realised part of his reaction to her was physical attraction. It had been many years since he had allowed himself to feel anything close to that. But fuck did she look sexy in that jumpsuit. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>He imagined it now, ripping it off her, biting her skin, right where the fabric sat snugly round her neck, trailed his lips down her breasts, her cleavage. He wondered idly whether he she would wear it again, maybe on their first real date. He could worship her the ways he deserved. In that fucking jumpsuit.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>More whisky and he’d begun to think of increasingly silly ways to get her out of his head. He’d thought of Origen, the man who had supposedly castrated himself to avoid temptation. He thought of his Nana, the stories she read to him and his brother when they were tiny. Danny, the Champion of the world, the Wind in the Willows and Winnie-the-Pooh. Finally, he’d turned on the radio, pouring the last of his whisky into his glass and given up on trying not to think of her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And then, just at the very moment he was searching his cupboards for the emergency bottle he vaguely remembered hiding a few weeks ago, just as he was remembering how many times, she had disengaged from him, as he tried to get to know her, she had appeared. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>She stirred slightly in her sleep. He reached out and placed his hand on top of hers, wondering if she could sense his presence as she slept. He leaned towards her, nose on her neck, breathing her in, before placing his lips on her collarbone. She sighed but didn’t wake.</p><p>Hopping out of bed, he headed into the bathroom, finding a spare toothbrush in the cupboard (for whom?), he freshened up and then bounced down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. In the kitchen, his spirits faltered slightly, remembering the severe lack of food from his searches last night. Seriously, what did the woman eat?! There were some teabags, Barry’s an Irish brand, he noted, but no milk. He scanned the cupboards again, just as empty as he remembered.</p><p>Ok, plan B. He grabbed his jeans and sweater, still lying on the floor from last night. Slipping his shoes on, and searching for his coat, he clicked the door lock onto the latch and headed outside. There had to be a grocery store nearby.</p><p>After locating a store and purchasing some breakfast items and milk, he walked quickly back to her flat, whistling to himself. This could be his new normal. Heading out in the morning, her waiting for him at home. He hoped she hadn’t woken up in the 15 minutes since he had left the flat. She might have assumed he had done an early morning runner. Maybe she was glad, glad to avoid the awkwardness of the morning after he had borne his soul to her. Well, only one way to find out, he thought as he turned onto her street.</p><p>He pushed the front door to her flat open with his foot and winced as it slammed shut behind him. He planned on bringing her breakfast in bed, hopefully that slam hadn’t woken her, alerted her to his absence from her bed.</p><p>He set the bags down, flicked the kettle on and got to preparing breakfast. Nothing too fancy, Pam usually cooked for him, so his cooking skills left something to be desired, but he did want to show a bit of effort. He knew practically nothing about her, including how she liked her eggs. He decided to go for scrambled, the way he used to have it as a kid, every Sunday, at his Nana’s before church.</p><p>As he turned to look for a tray, he noticed movement at the bottom of the stairs, she was looking towards the door and hadn’t noticed him in the kitchen, tucked away at the back of the flat. ‘Hey,’ he called out to her, ‘over here.’</p><p>She turned, startled by his presence. ‘Oh,’ her eyebrows shot up, ‘the bed was empty, I heard the door go, I thought you’d left.’</p><p>She looked a bit troubled, he thought, troubled at the idea that he might have gone. He headed towards her, grabbing both her hands in his, and leaning in for a gentle kiss. She returned it, sighing softly into his lips. He pulled back, ‘I’m making you breakfast,’ he smiled at her, ‘but you have absolutely jack shit in your kitchen.’</p><p>She laughed; a look of relief crossed her face. ‘Ok,’ he continued mock sternly, ‘now tell me where you keep some kind of tray and then get back to bed please.’</p><p>‘Cupboard above the oven,’ she winked at him, before turning and heading back up the stairs.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>‘Well aren’t you a sight,’ she greeted him as he walked through her bedroom door, eyes focussed on the tray so as not to spill the juice. ‘Are you looking to get laid or something?’ she grinned at him, lounging on the bed, one hand above her head, still wearing his grey t-shirt.</p><p>‘You could say that, yeah,’ he placed the tray on the side table and pulled his sweater and jeans off. She grabbed a piece of toast and eyed him as he undressed.</p><p>‘Breakfast and a show. This morning really is looking up.’</p><p>‘You cheeky little bugger,’ he sat on the bed, before moving on top of her, straddling her and pinning her arms above her head, biting playfully at her shoulder. ‘Now Miss, do you mind telling me exactly where you found this,’ he adopted a stern face, plucking at her shirt, ‘t-shirt, as I have reason to believe that it may have been taken against the owners will.’</p><p>He moved down, lifting the shirt slightly and placed his lips lightly on her hip bone, before moving up to her belly button. His tongue trailed along the bottom of her right breast as he moved the shirt further up her body.</p><p>‘I may have to confiscate it if you can’t give me a good enough answer,’ he whispered as his tongue found her nipple. He pushed the shirt up and gently pinched the other nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She sighed, her head laying back against the pillow.</p><p>‘Ok,’ he bit her gently before grabbing the shirt with both hands and whipping it up over her head. ‘you had your chance, the shirt goes.’ He threw the shirt across the room and reached for her hands again, pinning her wrists against the headboard. She was laughing, making absolutely no effort to resist him as he straddled her. His boxers were tented, displaying his hardness as he kissed her again. His tongue parted her lips this time, she tasted minty. He laced his fingers through hers and pressed himself closer to her, he could feel her responding, pushing her hips against his as he pressed his lips against hers, kisses growing more urgent.</p><p>‘What about the breakfast,’ she gasped into his mouth.</p><p>Oh shit, he’d forgotten about his romantic intentions of five minutes ago. ‘Do you want to stop,’ he asked softly, bringing his hand to stroke her cheek.</p><p>‘No,’ she leaned up and kissed his neck softly, ‘but you put all that effort in.’</p><p>‘Fuck if I care,’ he couldn’t think of anything worse than stopping.</p><p>He reached down, about to slide her underwear off, when she stopped him. Gently pushing him onto his back, she began to take charge. Fuck, she was hot, he thought, as she trailed her tongue down his chest, over his abdomen and towards the waistband of his boxers, which by now were straining against his erection. She looked up at him, grinning widely, and placed her tongue onto his boxers, right onto the head of his cock, circling it slowly through the fabric.</p><p>Oh fuck.</p><p>He watched her carefully as she stopped and considered him. ‘Off please,’ she gestured at the one piece of clothing separating her from his cock. He dragged down the boxers, freeing his erection.</p><p>She took her time, placing her hand around the base, and pulling up gently. She placed her mouth over his tip, brushing her tongue around it before gripping the base more tightly with her hand. She was slow, deliberate, her eyes were on his, as she dragged her tongue up the underside of his cock before putting her lips around him. He groaned, gripping the sheets below him. He watched her, she seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. He cried out throatily as her tongue glided along his cock, her hand cupping his balls. He moaned, ‘Fuck, Jesus, you’re…’ he muttered, closing his eyes.</p><p>She picked up her pace, humming softly against him as her hand gripped the base of his cock tightly. She tickled the head of his cock with her tongue before placing her lips back around and pumping her mouth. Faster and faster.</p><p>Fuck, he was so close. She needed to stop. ‘Can you… I need,’ he tried to get out words. But she seemed to take his unfinished sentence as encouragement and picked up the pace, gagging slightly as she took more of him into her mouth, fucking him.</p><p>His hands were gripping the sheets so tightly, he thought they had probably turned white, his hips were thrusting up towards her, out of his control. He was in ecstasy, if he didn’t know any better, he could have guessed this was heaven.</p><p>‘Fuck, I’m so close. I’m gonna come,’ he managed to get out.</p><p>But she didn’t stop, she kept her rhythm, fucking him like he’d never experienced.</p><p>‘Seriously, I’m going to, you need to stop or move or…’ he trailed off. She kept going, her head bobbing, eyes on his.</p><p>He couldn’t hold it off any longer. With a thrust of his hips, he exploded, her mouth still around his cock, he cried out in pleasure, shouting her name, and His name, and every profanity he could think of.</p><p>She moved her head up towards his, raising a finger to her lips and wiped the side of her mouth, grinning at him. Fuck, she was the sexiest woman he’d ever laid eyes on, he thought dimly as his senses returned to him.</p><p>She came up beside him, hands resting on his chest as it rose and fell with his frantic breaths. ‘Mm, I enjoyed that, almost as much as you did I think,’ she whispered softly.</p><p>‘You enjoyed that?’ his breath was still heavy, ‘I tried to warn you, I didn’t think you’d…’ he trailed off.</p><p>‘Didn’t think what, Father? That I would enjoy come in my mouth.’ She winked at him. Fuck, this woman. She did things to him.</p><p>‘Ok, now I do want that breakfast you made,’ she reached over him for a glass of orange juice and a piece of toast. ‘Eggs?’</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. My new favourite night shirt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>#staythefuckhomeandreadfanfic</p><p>This is a Fleabag POV from the events of Chapters 5-6.</p><p>Hope you enjoy, stay safe everyone!</p><p>Thanks for reading/ commenting :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She had actually seen him a couple of times since that weird encounter in the doctor’s surgery. Both times on purpose. She wanted to pretend to herself that it was fate, but the chances of ‘accidentally’ coming across the Priest you were meant to avoid by loitering outside of his Church after Mass on a Sunday were, well… It wasn’t fate.</p><p>He hadn’t seen her. She had stood a little off to the side of the church pathway, sheltered by an overhanging tree. Serious stalker vibes. But she had just wanted to check up on him. After he had looked practically deathly at the doctor’s, she wanted to see that he was ok. That he hadn’t <em>actually</em> died on her or something.</p><p>He did look ok. Both times she saw him. The first time he was in a green vestment. Dark, hunter green she thought it was called. He looked good in it. It was nicely tailored, suited his colouring. He looked happy as he bid farewell to his parishioners. She couldn’t tell he was 100% ok from this far away, but he looked better than before. His hair was certainly tidier.</p><p>The second time, she was meeting Claire and Klare. Claire had mentioned off hand that she would be going to a mass service, Klare had been begging her to take him. During Claire and Klare fairly short relationship, they had become one of those annoyingly cute couples who did everything together, told each other everything and had that horrible glowing ambience radiating out of their pores when they looked at each other. <em>Ugh. </em></p><p>The ‘telling each other everything’ aspect of the relationship meant that Claire had told Klare about her short lived, doomed relationship with the friendly Catholic Priest. Klare’s eyes had grown wide as she had laid out the whole debacle. In that annoying non-judgmental manner of his, he had asked her question after question, as he sipped his vodka tonic, one hand on Claire’s thigh as the three of them sat in the local pub. A perfect trio, Claire, Klare, and the loser in love with a priest.</p><p>And since the revelation, Klare had been like a dog with a bone. Desperate to meet the one man who could capture and break her heart. He had such empathy towards her, for her unrequited love. She could see it in his eyes.</p><p>‘You want me to, how is it…? You want me to rough up this Priest. I can do that?’ he had said, eyes shining, easy smile on his lips as he turned to Claire to share the joke.</p><p>Anyway, yes there she was, that second time. Hanging outside the church again, stalker alarm blaring. She loitered as the parishioners left, desperate to catch a glimpse, eager to hear Claire’s update on how he was. She saw him briefly. He was in white. It looked a little untailored, like he might want the arms nipped in slightly, she thought. But he was grinning, fidgeting with his hair, and looking around at his parishioners.</p><p>‘Hello, how was the service?’ she had pounced on Claire the minute the she, Klare and Jake had made it to the street.</p><p>‘It was lovely, you should have joined us all. Or maybe not, I don’t know,’ Klare replied. ‘Your priest was friendly. He knew I was Finnish; he must have a good ear for accents, I am thinking.’</p><p>‘He was a <em>little </em>distracted.’ Claire said. She leaned into her as they walked down the street, ‘I think he was hoping you were there too,’ she whispered, grabbing her hand quickly, before letting go. Claire had become much pleasanter since she had left Martin for Klare.</p><p> </p><p>---------</p><p> </p><p>That evening, after heading for lunch with Claire, Klare and Jake, she had showered and put on her comfiest sweatpants, intending to settle in for a night of binge watching some reality show. She felt a tear in her eye as one of the hopefuls on the show declared their undying love for someone, they had met a week ago. Why was she crying? Not over these idiots on TV surely?</p><p>That day when she’d seen him in the surgery, she had thought maybe that his appearance had something to do with her. Maybe he wasn’t getting on well, maybe it wasn’t passing. But clearly that wasn’t the case. Claire had said that he seemed to look good. Yes, she did say that he was distracted, but when the sister of the woman you broke your vows with shows up at your church, you’re bound to be a bit distracted aren’t you. Doesn’t mean you miss that woman. It could just mean you are praying that the sister doesn’t give away your secret to your trusting congregation.</p><p>She was crying, she realised as she lay on the sofa, staring at her mother’s statue, because today had confirmed that for him, it did pass. He was moving on. She needed to as well. She needed to stop with her sexual substitutes. Last night’s customer (not like that, she hadn’t taken to prostitution just yet), was a delicious snack. Six foot something, gym addict (CrossFit and boy did he love talking about it), this man was some sort of blond, tanned ripped Greek God. She had of course, as usual, imagined her priest. Imagined the unfeeling touch of CrossFit guy was actually the loving, gentle caress of her gorgeous priest.</p><p>But she had to stop. He was moving on. She had to too. If only for her own sanity.</p><p> </p><p>------------</p><p> </p><p>The buzzer going off had shocked her. She looked at her phone, 8pm. She wasn’t expecting anyone, hadn’t made plans with CrossFit guy or Glasses from Wednesday or that other dude, the one she had met after 2 bottles of wine, with the dark fluffy hair that had kind of reminded her of him.</p><p>She opened the door.</p><p>Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.</p><p>What the FUCK was he doing here?</p><p>What should she do? What did he want?</p><p>He wasn’t saying anything, he was squinting a little at her. Like he couldn’t quite work out how he had ended up on her doorstep. <em>Maybe he’s sleep walking.</em></p><p>Finally, he swallowed audibly, and forced out a ‘Hi’. He was stammering a little. It reminded her of that time in church, the first time. When he had noticed her in the pews and couldn’t quite work out how to get his words out.</p><p>He looked good. He had a maroon sweater on, it looked unbearably soft. She wanted to reach out and stroke his chest. He wasn’t wearing anything that indicated he was a priest. She knew he still was. She’d seen him at his own Mass service that very morning.</p><p>What was he doing? He was talking, but he wasn’t really saying anything. He told her he’d seen Claire. <em>Yes Father, I saw that.</em></p><p>‘Anyway, she mentioned you were ok,’ he said, he licked his lips. <em>Fuck, how does he look so good licking his lips. </em></p><p>Do not give anything away. ‘How nice,’ she replied, ‘anything else Father?’</p><p>He didn’t like her calling him Father. He had kind of jerked and looked away. Well, he is a fucking Father, deal with it. She made a note to call him Father as much as possible during the course of this bizarre conversation. Remind him exactly why he shouldn’t be here, torturing her like this.</p><p>And just what exactly <em>did </em>he want? Was he just going to stand there and tell her he had seen Claire? Did he really think that Claire wouldn’t have immediately informed her? Even if she hadn’t been stalking him outside the church, did he not think Claire wouldn’t have taken just a few seconds in the day to give her a quick ring, let her know she had had a conversation with the love of her life who had dumped her at a bus stop for some other guy who no one even really knew was real?</p><p>‘Not really,’ he was still stuttering slightly, ‘I – uh. Well I wanted to see for myself. How you were I mean. What ‘ok’ meant.’</p><p><br/>
‘Ah – right. Well now you see me. Does this confirm I am indeed, as Claire said, ‘ok’?’</p><p>Now he was cocking his head to the side, surveying her intensely. His eyes were bearing into her. ‘I’m not sure. I can’t honestly tell what you are,’ he said, softly. <em>FUCK, his eyes. His lips. His neck.</em></p><p>A strong breeze suddenly reminded her she was wearing very little, better get this thing wrapped up, she thought, taking a step back into her flat.</p><p>He screwed his eyes up at her comment. He showed so much emotion with those eyes. He looked like he wanted her to ask him in. She was not going to make any sort of first move here. Either he asked her to let him in, or she would close that door. She smiled to herself, congratulating herself on her stubbornness. Stubbornness that she knew she’d regret later as she lay alone in bed, after she had let him leave her again.</p><p>‘Well, I'm cold <em>Father</em>. What are we doing, are we going to wrap this up?’</p><p>He glanced down, ‘uh – well. Do you, I mean, are you – Are you busy? Do you have time to catch up?’ he was still looking down. He couldn’t meet her eye.</p><p>Oh! He wanted to come in. He was asking her? He was asking her to catch up. <em>Ok Father let’s catch up. </em></p><p>She backed into her flat, grabbing her remote to quickly turn off the crap she had been watching. ‘Are you coming in <em>Father</em>?’ she called over her shoulder.</p><p>He took very tentative steps into her living room. He ran his hands through his hair. <em>Ugh, I’m jealous of his hands. </em></p><p>He was looking around at her bookcase. The one where she kept her mother’s statue and her picture of Boo. The two items that had gotten her through this awful few months.</p><p>What would he do? Would he sit next to her on the couch? He was hovering awkwardly. Finally, he sat on the upholstered chair by the window. That chair had been her mothers. In her studio. She liked him sitting in it. She smiled.</p><p>‘So, you brought yourself over. To see if my sister was a liar?’ <em>Oh, good one, don’t make this easy for him.</em></p><p>Oof,  his laugh. It was uneasy. Like he didn’t know if she was about to attack him or something.</p><p>‘I’m joking Father.’ <em>Jeez, tough crowd.</em></p><p>‘Oh. Ha ha.’ Ok that laugh was fake, she thought to herself, about to call him out on it.</p><p>‘Hey,’ he interrupted her thought process. ‘Um – could you do me a favour, and not call me Father? It’s just – ‘</p><p>
  <em>Oh FUCK THAT.</em>
</p><p>‘Oh, because it turns me on just to say it you mean?’ she would enjoy this. Who did he think he was coming here, asking her not to acknowledge the whole reason they weren’t together?</p><p>‘I just..., it feels a bit weird. Look, I’m trying to… - I wanted to…. – are you trying to make this harder than it already has to be?</p><p>
  <em>He HAS to be kidding.</em>
</p><p>‘Excuse me?’ she leaned forward, about to get up, before reconsidering. Probably best not to go nearer him, ‘you just showed up on my doorstep, out of the blue, after months. What exactly about this am I making hard Father?’</p><p>
  <em>Literally hard? Quick check. No evidence. Damn. </em>
</p><p>‘I just meant –,‘ he began.</p><p>
  <em>Ok, now he’s annoying me. </em>
</p><p><em>'O</em>h, I know what you meant, Father,’ she could feel her cheeks heating up, why oh why had she blasted that central heating. ‘You wanted to come over here, see me looking happy so you could convince yourself you made the right choice. You want me to make this easy for you. Well I’m not going to.’</p><p>His eyes were desperate to meet hers. They were wide, searching, ‘I don’t want you to make it easy, I just want to see you. See you’re ok.’</p><p>
  <em>Ok he is kidding. He CANNOT think I’m ok.</em>
  
</p><p>‘Ok…. Ok….’ She was aware her voice was getting slightly too loud to be considered normal conversation. ‘You left me at a bus stop, less than 24 hours after you showed up on my doorstep and spent the night making love to me. And yes, it was making love, it wasn’t just sex.’ He’d told her he couldn’t have sex with her because he would fall in love with her. Well too late, she had already fallen and it had been the sweetest act of love she’d ever experienced.</p><p>‘You told me it would pass, you told me you chose some imaginary guy over me. And now you show up here and you want me to tell you I’m ‘ok’ so you can go about your merry, holy life without having to worry anymore. You come here, dressed like a regular guy by the way.’ <em>Ugh, his arms. That sweater was definitely nipped just right.</em></p><p>‘Where’s that collar when you need it? Convincing yourself you’re here for my own good, to check in, when all you really want is to relieve your own guilt about using me, using me and dumping me. You dumped me twice in fact. Twice in two days, AT THE SAME FUCKING BUS STOP. Admit it, you can’t live with the guilt of it, your little God won’t let you, so you’re here to make yourself feel better. Tell me that’s not why you’re here.’</p><p>He looked angry, furious; his soft eyes were narrowed. ‘You are so wrong.’</p><p>
  <em>Oop. Shouty Priest.</em>
</p><p>‘You couldn’t be further from the truth.’ He stood up abruptly.</p><p>
  <em>Oop. Pacing Priest.</em>
</p><p>‘I’m not here because I feel guilty, I’m not here out of any sense of obligation. Fuck, can’t you see. Can’t you see what you have done to me.’</p><p>What had she done to him? He looked angry. He was the one who had come here. He couldn’t be blaming her for this. He didn’t know she’d stalked him earlier today. <em>Did he?</em></p><p>He was still shouting, ‘I can't fucking handle it. I’m here because I cannot do anything, other than be here. It will not fucking pass, I fucking wish to God it would, but it won’t. Didn’t you see me, that day at the doctor’s, I was a mess. I know I was a mess. I don’t know how to be, how to exist, without being with you. Can’t you fucking see that.’</p><p>It won’t pass. He had said it wouldn’t pass. Her heart skipped a beat. She stood up. What did he mean? It wouldn’t pass. She felt tears in her eyes. Do not cry. You do not cry.</p><p>Then she was angry. What did he mean, it wouldn’t pass? What she had done to him.</p><p>‘What the fuck are you talking about,’ she yelled. ‘You! You’re a mess. What about me. You did this. You left me. You made your choice, you left me to pick myself up, put myself back together.’ She wasn’t even aware of what was coming out of her mouth. Had she just said she was in love with him?</p><p>Then before she knew what was happening, he was there, his lips were crushed against hers. He was pulling her against him so tightly, every inch of them was joined. She pushed her hips against his, her heart was beating so fast. She could feel his was too, hammering against her. She ran her hands through his hair, down the back of his neck, relishing the touch. This was what she had been imagining for two months. She didn’t have to play sexual substitute anymore. He was here. She pressed against him; she could feel how much he wanted her.</p><p>His hands were making their way beneath her scraggy tank top. The touch of his fingers against her skin was electric. It was burning. She wanted to feel his full weight on top of her. She pulled him, onto the sofa. He moved to her neck. Fuck he was a pro; he ripped her top off and was biting her nipples. Can women orgasm just from having a Sex God play with their nipples?</p><p>Too quickly to answer that question, his mouth was back on hers. Ok this sweater of his, as good as it looked, had outlived its welcome. She grabbed the sweater and t-shirt and pulled them over his head. And his mouth was back on hers, he was pulling his belt undone and then his cock was free, she wanted it so badly. She reached out, she wanted it inside her.</p><p>He took the hint, driving his cock into her, he was moving fast. Then his hand was on her, his thumb teasing her clit, she groaned. She wanted him closer. He was there, she wasn’t imagining it, he was really there, saying her name, his deep brown eyes staring at her, wide and reaching.</p><p>He was picking up the pace, she tightened her muscles around his cock and watched as his eyes got even wider. Her body was pulsating, he knew she was about to come, his eyes were imploring her to. Then she was crying out, she cried out his name, just as she had been wanting to night after night, she cried out over and over until the wave of the orgasm broke. And it was his turn, he was swearing, his eyes fluttered shut, then snapped open, his forehead was on hers.</p><p>And then, finally, she felt his weight on her. He buried his face into her neck, her legs were wrapped around him, she wasn’t about to let him move just yet. Her arms were on his back and neck, she could feel the rippling muscles as he tried to calm his breathing.</p><p>He exhaled deeply. <em>Oh God, third dumping. Not whilst he’s still inside me. He cannot.</em></p><p>He lifted his face and brushed his nose against hers. She braced herself. Ready for the rejection. He already regretted it? Jeez, making a girl feel special.</p><p>Honestly though, she thought as he took a deep breath, if she had to pick between this exquisite experience and immediate dumping vs nothing. She’d pick this, every time. Just the feeling of him back with her, that was enough to make it worth it.</p><p>
  <em>Ok, here goes.</em>
</p><p>His hands were by her face, he reached up and pushed her hair back, ‘I love you. Ask me to stay.’ <em>Wait, what!</em></p><p>She wasn’t going to question it, don’t let him change his mind, she grinned at him, a wide toothy grin, before leaning up towards him. His lips were on hers. It was so soft. A tingle ran from her lips, through her belly button to her groin.</p><p> ‘I love you. Please stay.’</p><p> </p><p>---------</p><p> </p><p>Later on, after he had told her about his childhood, let out all the secrets he’d been keeping, the reasons he had felt a calling to the church, after she had lain listening to him, his eyes searching for hers, searching for forgiveness and acceptance, she lay in his arms. He was sleeping, breathing gently against the back of her neck, his hand was firm against her stomach, pulling her to him as he slept.</p><p>She wasn’t wearing anything, she shivered slightly. Moving carefully, she extracted herself from his grip. He sighed slightly but didn’t wake. She looked around her room for something to wear.</p><p>
  <em>Sweater.</em>
</p><p>The sweater, his sweater. Well, her sweater from now on. He would not be getting away with that. Not with his delicious scent all over it. She threw on some underwear and crept down the stairs, searching for the maroon cashmere sweater he had arrived in. Where the fuck was it? Had she thrown it out the window in a frenzy? The grey t-shirt was on the floor by the sofa. Even better actually, this baby had skin on skin contact with him, stronger scent.</p><p>She put the t-shirt on, pulling the neckline up to her nose and taking in the smell of her priest. He would wake up in the morning, realising his mistake. She knew he would, she was no fool. But if he thought he was getting this t-shirt back, he had another thing coming. It would be the price he’d have to pay for coming by here.</p><p>She skipped back up the stairs, hugging her arms to her new favourite night shirt. At the doorway, she paused. He had turned, he lay on his back, the sheet was at his waist, his broad chest was moving softly with his breath. He looked so peaceful. She lifted the t-shirt again and inhaled the scent before sinking back into the bed, laying on her side facing her beautiful priest.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Some people care too much. I think it's called love.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>#staythefuckhomeandreadfanfic</p><p>Back to Priest. Hope you enjoy!</p><p>And hope everyone really is staying home and staying safe!</p><p>Thanks as always for reading/ commenting :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Ok, I have <em>really</em> got to leave,’ he kissed her nose and turned away from her, legs about to swing over the side of the bed. She quickly grabbed his hand and dragged him back, pulling him on top of her, wrapping her hands around his back and tugging him closer.</p><p>‘Seriously, I’m going to be late, I have a service in an hour and 30 minutes to be back and, in the vestry, getting ready for mass. Pam will be going crazy.’</p><p>At Pam’s name she fell back on the pillow and rolled her eyes. ‘But I’ll miss you. Why does Pam get to have you?’ A small smile tugged at the side of her mouth.</p><p>‘Trust me,’ he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers, ‘Pam does not get me in the same way you do.’</p><p>‘Bet she’d like to, Father. She’s desperate for a bit of that Priest action.’ She turned away.</p><p>Was she jealous of Pam? Ha. What a thought.</p><p>He took her distraction as a chance to hop up and began searching around for clothes. As he re-dressed, she was looking at him again, idly watching him move around the room. He grabbed the grey t-shirt she had been wearing earlier.</p><p>‘No,’ she leapt out of bed, hand on the t-shirt. ‘Mine, that’s mine now. You forfeited that when you came to my house and took it off. Sorry,’ she brought it to her nose and inhaled before putting the t-shirt on.</p><p>He placed his hands on her waist, pulling her closer to him. ‘Anything you want, you can have anything you want,’ he whispered before leaning in. Her lips were soft, eager, as he slowly kissed her, mouth open, breathing her in. His eyes were closed, and he could feel a slight response in his body as she pushed against him.</p><p>He pulled back, ‘hey, hey, you get the t-shirt, but I definitely have to go. I will have a riot of parishioners on my hands if I’m not out of this flat right now.’</p><p>She stuck out her bottom lip, ‘but it’s Monday. Who even goes to church on a Monday?’</p><p>He chuckled, ‘I’ll have you know I have a very loyal flock of people who cannot get enough of my daily mass service.’</p><p>‘Just Pam then?’</p><p>‘Fuck you,’ he laughed and leaned in for one more kiss before pulling away from her and searching for his shoes.</p><p>‘Believe me, I’m trying,’ she muttered, flopping dramatically onto the bed.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>As he hurriedly walked down the street, half-heartedly trying to compose a short homily for the mass he would have to put on soon, he realised that they had never actually exchanged numbers. The old him right now, would have been sending a text to her. Something about how much he had enjoyed their night or wanted to see her again, something to make sure she didn’t forget about him and find someone else. The old him had been quite needy. Needy for love and reassurance. The old him wouldn’t have left her bed to go and perform a Catholic Church service as a celibate priest. Times had definitely changed.</p><p>He wondered what his parishioners would think if they knew he was headed straight into their mass from the bed of a blaspheming, masturbatory, sodomising atheist. They were the particularly devout ones, the ones who attended every day. They would lose their fucking minds, he laughed at the thought.</p><p>He really did want to get in touch with her though. A quick text. He wanted to let her know that he wasn’t just heading back to the church again like last time. Just now, as it had become clearer that he actually was leaving, she had become more distant, she hadn’t looked him in the eye as he said goodbye to her, glancing slightly to his right and saying she hoped to see him soon. He shook his head as he walked. The whole thing had been so awkward. He wanted to ask if he could come back that night. She clearly wasn’t happy that he was leaving her for a church service, but when she got distant like that, he found it so hard to read her. So instead of suggesting they meet again, he had just waved a small wave as he headed out the room and down the stairs.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>Pam had been frantic when he got back to the church. He had 30 minutes until the service began, so plenty of time to get dressed and say his Vesting Prayers. She followed him into the vestry, eyes wide, ‘Father, I was so worried. Where have you been?’</p><p>She looked him up and down. Probably noting he had on the same clothes from last night.</p><p>‘Pam, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.’ He grabbed his alb, standing partially hidden behind the open closet door. ‘I was just out visiting with an old friend from the seminary last night, we had a couple of beers and it was late, so I decided to stay on his sofa. Didn’t want to wake you, you know.’ He poked his head around the door.</p><p>Pam was pacing slightly; she had a strange look on her face.</p><p>‘I’m ok Pam, seriously, you don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.’ He hoped that hadn’t come across to bitingly. ‘Hey, could you give me a little privacy, I only have a little while to get ready.’ He held up his amice.</p><p>‘Oh,’ Pam laughed awkwardly. ‘Sorry, Father, I’ll see you out there.’</p><p> </p><p>---------</p><p> </p><p>The service had gone quickly. His atheist had been correct, not many people ever really did turn up to his weekly service, especially on Monday’s. He counted four in the pews, not including Pam.</p><p>As he was changing, he thought back to the morning, he didn’t like how it had been left. He hated that he couldn’t read her. Couldn’t tell what she was thinking, what she wanted from him. This whole time he had been wanting her to tell him she wanted him, <em>really </em>wanted him. Not just for sex, or just as a conquest, or just for fun for a little while. He just desperately wanted her to tell him, no prompting, that she loved him and wanted him with her.</p><p>Yes, she had told him she loved him. But only after he asked her to say it dammit.</p><p>He turned and looked around the vestry, the ornate paintings, the stacks of bibles. He did love it. But it was clear to him, after The Night, the painful months that followed, and the glory of last night, that his choice had been made. It was her.</p><p>And he <em>really</em> wanted to see her again.</p><p>He looked at the time. There was a couple due any minute for some marriage counselling ahead of their wedding, it would be his third ceremony. The second was nowhere near as memorable as that first one, he doubted any ever would be. After counselling he had a couple of home bound parishioners to visit. Perhaps he could swing by the café beforehand, grab some snacks to take on his rounds. It would be an excuse to see her at least.</p><p> </p><p>---------</p><p> </p><p>‘So, Erica,’ he smiled at the young woman in front of him, ‘tell me about your family, your childhood.’</p><p>She was 23, blond and incredibly petite, she spoke softly, he had to strain to hear her. He had already had his meeting with the groom-to-be, also blond, but tall with ruddy cheeks. It was his second meeting with the couple, so he was conducting a one-on-one with each of them. Looking to understand them a little better. The groom-to-be, Liam, had been very friendly. He had laughed a lot. A loud booming laugh. He had answered questions freely and with feeling.</p><p>Now the bride, Erica, was telling him about her family. He thought of how hypocritical this whole process was. He was asking her about her family life, her childhood, checking she had a good base for her marriage. And look at him, his childhood hadn’t exactly propelled him into a life of ease.</p><p>She finished her response and smiled at him warmly. They seemed like a lovely couple; truth be told. He was happy they had found each other. And her smile was contagious, he grinned back at her across the desk, ‘and can you tell me about your past relationships, how might they differ from the one you are in now?’</p><p>As she launched into a glowing report of her relationship with her groom to be, he sat back in the chair, thinking of his atheist. If he compared her to his past relationships, he knew it was different. Despite the fact he could hardly ever tell what she was thinking, and despite the fact that she occasionally shut him out, she <em>was</em> warm and caring towards him. When she smiled at him, stared at him with those deep brown eyes, she was telling him he could be completely comfortable with her. She was telling him he could do anything, and she would never judge.</p><p>Erica was smiling again, ‘…and I just know that at the end of the day, he’ll be there for me, he’s the most kind-hearted, gentle, compassionate man I’ve ever met, Father.’</p><p>His heart leapt slightly at the love spilling out of this young woman. He wanted her to ask <em>him </em>about <em>his </em>relationships. He wanted to talk about his atheist. Her kind heart, that she rarely gave to anyone, but when she did, was the most treasured possession they could be given. He pulled at his collar slightly.</p><p>‘Erica, that was lovely, you and Liam seem to be so well suited, I look forward to marrying you very much.’ She giggled. ‘Just a couple more questions and you two can head off.’</p><p>Erica glanced around the room, her gaze shifting slightly to the shelf to his right.</p><p>‘Oh, Winnie the Pooh. How sweet! How did that little guy make it into your office Father?’</p><p>He followed her gaze; the plushie Winnie the Pooh perched on the shelf had been a donation from the fete. The one he had organised a few months ago, when his atheist had shown up and helped on the stalls. This particular stuffed animal hadn’t sold that day and as he was organising items to go to the charity shop, it had reminded him of her somehow. It was quite small, only 5 inches or so tall, slightly worn, like it may have been loved fiercely once and then forgotten by its owner as they grew up and moved on. Kind of how he imagined his atheist.  </p><p>The plushie had reminded him of his favourite Winnie-the-Pooh quote. The one that had followed him throughout his childhood as he yearned for love from his parents and his Nana. And then throughout his early adulthood as he searched for love with a string of inappropriate or uncaring women. It reminded him of his longing to find His love, as he entered the seminary and came on the path to become a Priest.</p><p>
  <em>“Some people care too much. I think it’s called love.”</em>
</p><p><em><br/>
</em>He had always been the boy who cared too much, the boy with love to spare, to give to even those most undeserving people in his life.</p><p>Today, the quote made him think of her. The most deserving person he had ever some across.</p><p>God, if he wasn’t careful, he’d start crying in the middle of his marriage counselling session. He coughed and glanced down at his notes.</p><p>‘Ok,’ he attempted to mirror Erica’s smile, ‘maybe just to finish, you could talk to be about faithfulness. Tell me about your idea of faithfulness and whether you believe Liam in turn will be faithful to you.’</p><p>It wasn’t a great question. He didn’t really like it. What a thing to ask a young engaged couple as they headed into the rest of their lives. But he supposed it was a good thing for them to think about. Consider individually and maybe discuss together.</p><p>Again, he thought of his atheist. If she let him, if she allowed him into her life, he would be faithful to her. When she was around him, he noticed no one else, his tunnel vision was focussed solely on her. When she wasn’t around him, he noticed people. He wished they would have peaceful days and prayed for them to be kind and caring towards others. But he didn’t notice them in <em>that </em>way. He hadn’t noticed anyone in <em>that </em>way for 15 years now. Only her. No, he wouldn’t struggle with being faithful.</p><p>Her on the other hand. She was so used to having whomever she wanted. She probably had at least 5 men she could call this very moment to be round within the hour. And she hadn’t even told him she wanted to be with him. She did tell him she loved him, once at a bus stop as he was breaking her heart, once when he had begged her to and once in the middle of an argument. Who knew what she really meant there? Would she be faithful to him? If he asked? He supposed her first response would be that he was constantly cheating on her with the guy in the sky. He’d have to be ready for a response to that one, he thought.</p><p>He pulled his mind back to the task at hand, finished up the counselling session and made arrangements for the couple’s final meeting. The groom-to-be had been waiting outside the room as he had conducted his one-on-one with the bride and now, as he said goodbye to them and walked with them to the exit, they were holding hands, a light grip, she was slightly leaning into him as they walked.</p><p>He wasn’t particularly envious of the couple’s relationship, that certainly wasn’t the kind of relationship he and his atheist had. All smiles and simpering, ever so slightly too sugary for his taste. He <em>was</em> envious of their certainty though. They would probably head off now, for lunch or home, in the perfect knowledge of each other’s feelings. One hundred percent certain that their own feelings were reciprocated. He was envious of their freedom too. That they were allowed to walk down the street hand in hand, go on dates, and get engaged. They lived together already. He had had to inform them of the churches view on pre-marital sex and cohabitation, ask them to consider different arrangements until the wedding. He’d felt completely hypocritical the entire time.</p><p>He tugged at his collar again as he walked back into the church. He felt like all he was doing these days was tugging at the collar. What had been a symbol of peace and safety before, now felt like it was slowly strangling him.</p><p>He had made up his mind during the marriage counselling that he <em>would </em>go to her café. He’d have to go in Priest-mode, leave his collar on as he’d be heading on his house visits straight after. But he was desperate to see her. He made a mental note to get her number.</p><p>He’d explicitly avoided getting it last time. Sending casual text messages wasn’t the kind of thing a priest did with one of his parishioners. But things had changed now. He had chosen her; he knew he had. He wanted to do things right, date her, romance her. Convince her to pick him. And for that, he’d need to be able to get in contact with her.</p><p> </p><p>----------</p><p> </p><p>An hour later, he turned onto the street and saw the familiar Hilary’s Café sign in the window. It felt strange doing this walk again. It was the walk he had done every night for two weeks after The Night. Two weeks spent making his daily pilgrimage to try and feel even a little connected to her. This time though, his heart didn’t feel heavy as he walked. It felt full, but not heavy.</p><p>It looked busy. There were 6 tables outside, each one taken, people drinking coffee, smiling and chatting. He headed up the steps, hearing the bell ring as he made his way inside. The inside was even busier. Not a single table was free. There was someone behind the counter, someone who wasn’t his atheist. Fuck. She wasn’t here.</p><p>The girl behind the counter smiled at him, eyeing him up and down in the way most women and some men did, before resting her gaze onto his white collar.</p><p>‘Hello Father,’ the girl spoke with a broad northern accent, it was kind of brash. ‘How can I help, I don’t think there are any tables, but you can get takeout or sit here with me at the counter.’ She bit her lip. If he didn’t know any better, he thought she might have also winked at him.</p><p>‘Uh, hi, thanks. Actually, I was just looking for a friend. Thought she’d be here; she owns the place.’ He tried to peer into the back of the café. Unless she had sold without telling him. ‘I think,’ he added.</p><p>‘Oh yes, she’s around somewhere. Want me to get her?’ the girl was still staring at him keenly. He brushed his hands through his hair, did he have something on his face?</p><p>‘If you don’t mind, I might just sneak into the back if she’s there? I just want a quick chat, don’t want to disrupt her.’</p><p>The girl shrugged her shoulders. ‘All the same to me,’ she swung the little half size swing door, separating the café from behind the counter, and ushered him through, she was definitely flirting now. She leaned against back, palms on the counter, chest pushed out in front of her. He squeezed past her, giving his thanks and his best ‘Priest’ smile as he went by.</p><p>He pushed the door open gently, letting himself into the back room.</p><p>‘Is that you Delia?’ he heard his atheist. ‘I’m trying to do some sort of stock count and I’m so fucking useless at it, I just…’</p><p>Her sentence trailed off as he made his way around the corner and into her line of sight.</p><p>‘Oh!’ she was sitting at a desk, a computer in front of her, cheeks reddened in frustration, it seemed. ‘It’s you, Father.’</p><p>He leaned his hands down on the desk, bringing his face in line with hers, only a couple of inches apart.</p><p>‘Oh, it’s me Father,’ he repeated back at her, licking his lips. ‘Please tell me you’re glad it’s me and not <em>Delia</em>.’ He glanced back towards the door.</p><p>‘Well, I am having a shit time with this stock take, Delia is much better, I <em>would </em>quite like her help,’ her head was tilted towards him, eyes half closed.</p><p>He leaned in and touched his lips to hers. Softly, delicately. He breathed into her, ‘how about now? Still rather it was Delia?’</p><p>Her eyes were fully closed now, her cheeks had gotten a shade redder. ‘Well Delia <em>is </em>a dab hand at counting, and she’s also a pretty good kiss…’</p><p>He kissed her again. Harder this time, his tongue grazing her lips and then nudging them to open, let him in. Her mouth opened freely, inviting him in. Her hand was on his cheek, lightly stroking it.</p><p>He pulled back slightly, ‘how about now?’</p><p>She breathed in deeply, opening her eyes slightly, ‘yes ok, I suppose I’m vaguely glad it was you, only vaguely.’</p><p>This time he was fierce. He crushed his lips against hers, tongue hungrily demanding for access. He lifted his hands, brushing his right under her chin, taking her hand in his left. She stood up, moving herself onto the table so she was sitting on it, legs wide, pulling him in between them. Her hands were on his neck, wrenching him into her. Her lips felt electric against his. He could feel it running through him as she tugged him even closer, closing the space between them. She moved her lips to his jawline, peppering kisses along it.</p><p>‘I missed you,’ he whispered feverishly, drawing her lips back to his and pressing his body against hers.</p><p>Suddenly, the door swung.</p><p>Like a flash, he released his grip on her, practically jumping to the side of the room.</p><p>‘Hey Delia,’ his atheist said, folding one long leg over the other, remaining perched on the edge of the table. ‘Everything ok out there?’ she was laughing.</p><p>He turned away, towards the wall, trying to hide any evidence of what they had just been doing, hide the physical impact she had had on him as she pressed her body against his.</p><p>He was sure Delia would be glancing between them, desperate to ask. He heard her say that the café was getting too busy. That she might need some help out there.</p><p>He turned back towards them. His atheist was nodding, ‘sure Delia, I’ll be out in just a sec. We were nearly done here anyway.’ She threw a sideways glance towards him.</p><p>He tugged on his collar.</p><p>Delia ogled him for a few seconds. She tilted her head slightly, she was probably trying to figure out exactly what she had interrupted, he thought, before turning and heading out to the café.</p><p>‘That was close,’ he said, putting his hands out in front of him, palms facing towards her. He stayed by the wall, maintaining his distance.</p><p>She laughed at him and hopped off the table, ‘that was<em> hot</em>. Jeez, I think we’d be having sex on this table right now if she hadn’t burst in.’</p><p>She placed a small, quick peck on his cheek, ‘I missed you too. It’s only been about 5 hours, and I already had to have a quick wank back here earlier thinking about you.’ She whispered into his ear before heading towards the door.</p><p>What the fuck.</p><p>She turned back, one hand on the door handle. ‘So, did you come here for something in particular Father? Or just to turn me on and leave?’ he couldn’t get over how much she loved to tease him. It was so sexy. It was not helping with the situation in his trousers.</p><p>He felt his cheeks colour slightly. His lips were dry. ‘I came here actually to see if you had plans tonight. If not, I wanted to come to yours, cook you dinner if you’re interested?’</p><p>He thought he saw her eyes light up; pretty sure he hadn’t imagined it.</p><p>‘No plans see you around 8?’ she pulled the door open and headed out into the café without waiting for his response.</p><p>After some deep breaths and a minute or so of intensely focused thoughts of the most recent set of scriptures he had read (it had been his go to ‘kill your boner’ technique ever since he had been a horny teen), he headed out into the café, waving goodbye to his atheist and saying thanks to Delia. As he made his way down the street, he realised that he had neither gotten her number, nor the pastries he needed for his house visits. She really did turn his mind to mush, he laughed to himself as he headed off to his first house call, thinking about what he would cook her that evening.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Salvation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the delay, i got distracted writing poetry amongst other things.</p><p>i realised mid way through writing that this was the end. Hope you have enjoyed and thanks for the nice comments.</p><p>#staythefuckhomeandreadfanfic</p><p>Stay safe everyone!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Beef wellington? Maybe rosemary lamb and dauphinoise potatoes? He laughed and shook his head. He had been an ok cook at one point in his life. Back when he had taught himself to take care of his Nana. But now, after many years being treated like a schoolboy in the seminary, mass produced dinners provided at exactly 7pm each night, and then having Pam to cook for him now, his skills in the kitchen would probably turn out to be slightly rusty.</p><p>He settled on an easy pasta dish. A recipe his mam had actually taught him. During one of the rare occasions that she paid attention to him. Happy with his purchases and heading out of the supermarket, he noticed the stall of flowers by the door and doubled back. </p><p>Hmm, roses? Not lilies. Too many people used lilies at funerals. He picked up a bouquet. Tulips. Yellow, orange and pink. With a slight skip in his step, he bought the flowers and headed to her flat. He felt nervous. This was first date territory. Real first date, not ‘I’m a priest so we’re pretending there is nothing between us’ date.</p><p>As he walked the streets to her flat, he wondered if she would be treating it like a date. He had dressed up as best he could. He definitely didn’t own any date clothes, most of his ‘non-church’ clothes were pretty casual, so he had put on the button-down shirt and slacks that he usually reserved for when his parishioners invited him to dinner. In fact, he thought, this was most likely the outfit he had worn on the night he had first met her.</p><p>He was pretty sure he had implied to her that this was a date. Hopefully she wasn’t waiting for him at home in her sweatpants. Although, if she was, it would be a nice excuse to get them straight off her. </p><p>He reached her street and headed up the pathway. He felt more put together this time than last night when he had hit the buzzer. Tonight though, he felt full of nerves. His hands were a bit clammy, and he had a soft panicked feeling in his stomach, it was unsettling. </p><p>He placed his shopping bag of food on the ground and put the bouquet into his left hand, hitting the buzzer with his right. The door swung open quickly, bathing him in light from the inside of her flat.</p><p>She was smiling widely. She wasn’t in her sweats. He let out a breath.</p><p>‘Hi,’ he brought his hand up to a small wave.</p><p>‘Hello,’ she didn't move, she seemed unusually coy.</p><p>He stepped forward, placing a soft kiss on her cheek, ‘I got you some flowers.’</p><p>‘I can see,’ she took a step back, inviting him in. ‘They’re lovely. Thank you.’</p><p>She took the flowers and headed towards the kitchen. Grabbing his bag, he followed her in, grateful for the warmth of the cosy flat. In the kitchen she was standing awkwardly, eyes shifting around.</p><p>‘You don’t have a vase, do you?’ he chuckled.</p><p>She bit her lip. ‘Um no,’ she glanced around, ‘but, here, this’ll work.’ She grabbed a tall glass from her cupboard, filled it with water and placed the flowers in. ‘They’re beautiful. Thanks,’ her cheeks were tinged slightly red.</p><p>He grabbed her waist, pulling her towards him. ‘Sorry,’ he kissed her lips, ‘I didn’t mean to make it awkward. I just wanted to get you flowers, for our date…- you know.’</p><p>She wrapped her arms around his neck, ‘our date?’</p><p>‘Yeah,’ he pulled her against him, their bodies flush against each other. ‘Didn’t I tell you this was a date?’</p><p>‘Not explicitly, no Father. I half thought this might be the second dumping. I’m sorry, I didn’t really dress up.’</p><p>He pulled back slightly and appraised her. She had on slim dark jeans and a stripy top. The top clung to her breasts. ‘You look perfect.’</p><p>She shook her head. ‘No. You dressed up. I recognise that shirt.’ She paused and untangled herself from his arms. Eyeing his shopping bag, she continued, ‘are you really cooking?’</p><p>He laughed, ‘of course.’</p><p>‘Ok, do you mind if I…- whilst you get that stuff out, if I go change? I won’t take long.’</p><p>‘You don’t need to change. You look beautiful!’ he took in her figure again. In all honesty, if she was going to go up and change, all he really wanted to do was follow her upstairs and rip her clothes off himself.</p><p>‘I’m going.’ She headed out the kitchen. ‘Do NOT follow me,’ she called back with a laugh as she ran up the steps.</p><p> Jeez, she could read his mind. </p><p>He set about unpacking his food. Why had he been so nervous? Being with her felt so natural, his unsettled feeling of minutes before had completely disappeared now. Searching round the kitchen cupboards, he was glad he hadn’t relied on her for a single item on the recipe. There wasn’t even any salt for Christ’s sake.</p><p>About ten minutes later, as he was humming to himself and chopping some carrots, he heard her make her way back down. </p><p>‘Ok,’ she called, ‘I may have gone from underdressed, to completely overdressed in one fell swoop, but…-‘</p><p>He twirled on his heels, ‘oh, God help me.’</p><p>She laughed.</p><p>She looked fucking amazing. She had on the jumpsuit. The one she had worn at dinner the night they met. He definitely hadn’t realised it at the time, but there had been physical attraction that night. He wouldn’t have admitted it even if he had realised. But he could admit it now. She looked, for want of a better descriptor, entirely fuckable. </p><p>‘Christ,’ he placed the knife on the counter and strode towards her. ‘You look lovely. What are you doing to me?’ When he reached her, he crushed his body against hers, his hand placed gently on her neck, stroking just above the fabric. His lips were pressed against hers, urging them open as he backed her against the wall. He broke off the kiss and kissed her jawline, one hand pressed into her hair, ‘can we forget dinner and just get this straight off you?’ he whispered desperately into her neck, his body grinding against hers.</p><p>She reached her hand down to his belt buckle, fingers looking to free him, ‘I’m game if you are.’ She put her mouth back on his, biting gently at his lower lip as she worked the button on his trousers open. </p><p>Out of nowhere, a strong wind whistled past her back window, the lid of a bin flew off and hit the ground with a thud. He jumped back, startled by the interruption, staring out the back window.</p><p>‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the wall. ‘I thought we were past all that.’</p><p>He looked back at her, she didn’t look happy. ‘Past all what?’</p><p>She raised her eyebrows.</p><p>He remembered the two paintings, both falling just at the most inopportune moments.</p><p>‘Oh… that.’ He was breathing heavily. She pushed herself off the wall and headed towards the sofa.</p><p>‘No, no, no,’ he waved his arms in front of his body, eyes wide. ‘We <i>are</i> past all that.’ She sat forcefully on the sofa. Her breasts bounced slightly with the impact. </p><p>‘Sorry, I’m sorry. We <i>are</i> past it. I fully intend to get that fucking incredible outfit off you later. But I’m glad my senses returned, because I <i>do</i> want to actually cook dinner for you.’</p><p>She smiled slightly. Placated?</p><p>‘Ok?’ he asked.</p><p>‘Ok.’ She stood. ‘But I hope you know that I am not a chef and will not be helping you with the meal tonight. I will, however, pour us both some wine and admire your beautiful neck and arms whilst you get to it.’</p><p>She grabbed two wine glasses from the cupboard and turned. ‘Any particular wine we should be enjoying with this meal?’</p><p>‘Red would be best,’ he headed back to the counter, glad to feel his heart rate final returning to normal. ‘I have some pinot in one of those bags if you like.’</p><p>‘Ah, he cooks and provides alcohol. Perfect man.’ She grabbed the wine and poured out too glasses before pulling a chair out from under the dining table and sitting.</p><p>‘Beautiful neck?’ he turned towards her. ‘I’m sure I’ve heard you say that before.’</p><p>‘Oh, I don’t think so Father.’ She took a sip, eyes fixed firmly on his. God, he wanted nothing more than to throw her on that table and fuck her. This would be a long ‘date’.</p><p> </p><p>------------</p><p>His meal tasted surprisingly good, considering he hadn’t cooked in years. She'd even told him, with an air of pure astonishment, that she'd enjoyed it. When they had both finished, she stood up and settled herself onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. </p><p>‘So, can we pick up where we left off now?’</p><p>Mmm, this was a good angle. His mouth was virtually in line with her cleavage. He eyed her wearily before giving her a very quick peck on the lips. </p><p>‘Not yet, I just have one thing I want to talk to you about first.’ He held up his hands as she began to open her mouth. ‘Not dumping you.’</p><p>She hopped up in surrender, ‘ok, what are we talking about?’</p><p>‘So earlier,’ he stood up, grabbed both her hands in his and pulled her onto the sofa. ‘I was sitting in the vestry. Trying to write my next homily and thinking about you.’ She smiled. ‘Well, kind of.’ The smile turned to a slight frown; eyebrows knitted in confusion.</p><p>‘Really I was thinking about what my plans were. My plans moving forward. Plans that involve you.’ He had kicked his shoes off and was sitting cross legged. His whole body was facing hers, left shoulder against the back of the sofa, hands on the sofa between them, fingers interlaced in hers. </p><p>‘I had a realisation. Because… I know it won’t pass. Or... - Actually, what I know is that maybe it would pass, but I don’t have the strength of will for it to pass. I can’t let it. And I don’t want it to.’</p><p>She brought her legs up off the floor. Mirroring his cross-legged position. Her eyebrows were still furrowed. He wanted to reach out and reassure her. </p><p>‘So, clearly, since I want to be with you, and evidently, if I’m with you, I can’t stick to my vows. No matter how hard I try,’ he tipped his head to the side slightly, an impish grin on his face, ‘then I need to do something about said vows.’</p><p>Her face was full of defeat now. It was the same face she had made that night at the bus stop. Like she knew what he was going to say and was willing him not to. </p><p>He took a deep breath and continued, ‘and it’s not a decision I just made, like that,’ he snapped his finger and thumb, she flinched slightly at the crisp sound. ‘But one that I have been unconsciously making for months now. And I’m not sure how long it will take, and I most certainly will have to jump through many, many hoops to get out, but…-‘</p><p>She was still looking at him oddly. Maybe she thought he was pressuring her?</p><p>‘But I’m not asking anything of you.’ He dropped her hand. She glanced down at it. ‘I’ve made my decision. You didn’t put any pressure on me. Not once. Not before,’ he thought back to the bus stop, the night he had made his first choice, ‘and not now. Not even when I’ve shown up at your door, yelling at you and begging you to love me.’ A wry grin crept across his face.</p><p>She finally spoke. ‘So… what are you saying? I’m confused.’</p><p>‘Oh yes, sorry. I’m going to leave the priesthood.’</p><p>A shadow passed over face. A shadow of despair? He couldn’t tell. </p><p>‘Like I said. It is not just for you, although I would definitely prefer if you were there with me at some point. But no pressure, and you haven’t even mentioned the idea of it to me, so if this,’ he gestured between them, ‘is not something you plan on moving forward with, or if me leaving makes it all too real.’ He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘Well then, that’s ok. It won’t change my decision.’</p><p>She was just staring. Her expression neutral. He wished he could read her.</p><p>‘What about your mate?’ she glanced upwards.</p><p>He leant forward again, reaching to take her hands back, a rush of adrenaline coursing through him. ‘Can’t you see. I’m not abandoning Him. I’m not abandoning my calling. If you stick with me, I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with a certain amount of spirituality. But I realised… my God wouldn’t do this to me as a test. He wouldn’t test my love of <i>Him</i>… with another type of love. A love so all consuming, wonderful, absolutely mindboggling…- My God wouldn’t see the love I feel for you as a corruptive force. How could He? How could a life in the priesthood, supressing my love for you, be the will of a God who himself is<i>so</i> loving?’</p><p>He felt like he was giving a sermon.</p><p>‘Mandated celibacy is not the will of God. God loves; and He expects his children to, too. I can help people, guide them and provide support, and love you at the same time. And my God, the one I look to, he loves love.’  </p><p>She laughed. Gently. She wasn’t laughing at him. At least he didn’t think she was. Maybe she was laughing at the shock of it.</p><p>She stood up, pulling him up with her.</p><p>‘Your God is loving. And he loves us loving each other?’</p><p>He nodded fervently. </p><p>‘Ok.’ She wrapped her arms around his waist. </p><p>‘Ok?’</p><p>‘Ok. I’m not sure I will be best friends with the guy. But he can live with us. As long as he makes himself scarce when I want you to fuck me and scream his name.’</p><p>He laughed and pulled her into his body, wrapping his arms tightly around her. </p><p>After a few moments, she pulled back, her eyes on his. ‘Ok, now will you fuck me?’</p><p>He grabbed her hand and headed towards the stairs. ‘Yes I fucking will.’</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p>He ripped the jumpsuit off, kissing her neck as he unfastened, trailing kisses down her body as he lowered it to the ground.</p><p>‘Oh, for fuck sake,’ he murmured for the second time that evening. </p><p>She wasn’t wearing any underwear. He knelt down, lifting her feet to take the suit off and threw it across the room. Putting his hand on her waist, he pulled her into him, tongue on her upper thigh, gently nipping and sucking. She buried her hands in his hair, moaning softly as he placed the pad of his thumb on her clit and gently stroked. He continued to bite and suck at her thighs, his mouth making its way closer to his hand. Removing his thumb from her clit, he reached between her legs, two fingers gliding over the slick folds. Fuck, she was wet.</p><p>Her hands became more forceful, running through his hair, over his shoulders, her back arched slightly where she stood. Finally, his tongue reached her clit. Sliding over, tasting her. He glanced up, her head was thrown back. He circled his tongue, becoming firmer against her as she pushed her hips into him. She cried out, calling his name and jolting into him before glancing down to him. Her eyes met his, they were dark. He slowed his tongue, keeping the pressure on her, until she reached down for him. She put her hands on his cheek, pulling him up her body, bringing his face to hers. He was still fully dressed; he could feel his cock straining against his trousers. </p><p>‘How did this happen?’ she was breathing heavily. ‘This shirt needs to go.’ She ripped at the buttons, yanking the shirt down his arms and dropping it to the floor. Running her fingers down his chest to his stomach and placing them on his belt, she leaned in, tongue on his lips, crushing against him, as she undid his belt, and yanked his remaining clothes off.</p><p>She knelt down, taking his hard cock into her hands. Looking up, she smiled slightly, ‘is this what you wanted when you told me to kneel Father?’</p><p>Without waiting for an answer, she opened her mouth, gliding her tongue down his cock and back up before taking him deep inside her. His mind was blank. What was she even talking about? All he could feel was her, wet and warm, moving up and down, slowly, hollowing her cheeks. Knowing she enjoyed this was such a fucking turn on. He closed his eyes in pleasure, groaning at her touch. Her hands were tight around the base, her tongue flicking over the head of his cock, teasing him. She took him in her mouth again and hummed against his shaft. </p><p>He was close, but he didn’t want to come like this. He wanted her to come with him. He brought his finger to her cheek, stroking it. He curled a finger under her chin, pleading with her to stand up.<br/>
She pulled back, looking up at him, ‘want me to stop?’</p><p>He panted softly, ‘I want you on the bed.’</p><p>She grinned, stood and moved to lie back onto her bed. Slowly, he leaned over her, moving his head down and taking a nipple between his teeth. Gently sucking, he bit and swirled his tongue between his teeth, over her erect nipple.</p><p>He could feel a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his cock was throbbing. She leaned up towards him, bringing his mouth to hers. As her tongue met his, he felt her grab his cock, guiding it between her legs. Leaning towards her, he slowly pushed into her, pressing his lips against hers simultaneously. Fuck heaven, he was in it right now. She was so wet, he drove into her slowly, taking each thrust as a chance to appreciate the sensation.</p><p>He continued to move, he resting his lips against her neck, taking in her familiar vanilla scent as he breathed in.  ‘I love you,’ he whispered against her body.</p><p>She was panting heavily, raking her fingernails down his back. </p><p>‘Faster,’ she moaned quietly into his ear.</p><p>He upped his pace, slamming against her feverishly. He could hear her crying out, she was pressing her hips up against him, grinding into him. He could tell she was coming. He loved that he knew. She had her arms on his back, desperately pulling him against her.</p><p>As he came, crying out her name, groaning in pleasure, her lips searched for his, joining them. He loved this moment. They were so close. And connected. </p><p>‘Jesus, fuck,’ she whispered into him as he collapsed onto her. His head buried again into that delicious crease of her neck.  </p><p>After a few moments, he fell onto the mattress beside her. His hand reached out to hers, fingers linked as they lay on their backs waiting for their breath to return to normal.</p><p>‘Jesus, fuck indeed,’ he glanced sideways at her, a small smile on his lips. She smiled back, turning onto her side to look at him.</p><p>He closed his eyes, chest rising and falling heavily with his breath. After a couple of minutes, he felt the mattress move slightly, and then she was lying against him, snuggled under his arm, head on his chest, and arm wrapped across his torso. </p><p>She lay in silence, idly doodling her fingers over his stomach.</p><p>‘Nice abs,’ she whispered softly. He kept his eyes closed, it felt nice to have her be so close. For her to choose to be so close. ‘Not sure why a priest needs to have such nice abs.’</p><p>Her hand stopped moving, it rested on his stomach just below his belly button. His stomach fluttered slightly at the gentle touch. He could feel her breath on his collarbone. She must be looking up at him. </p><p>And then he heard it. Unbidden. The first time she’d said it to him with no prompt since that night at the bus stop.</p><p>‘I love you.’ </p><p>His eyes remained closed, he tensed slightly. She had said it.</p><p>‘I love you.’ She repeated it.</p><p>He finally opened his eyes, glancing down at her, ‘I love you too.’</p>
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